


Rebound

by MissMoustachio (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Agender Enjolras, Autistic Marius, Bad Jokes, Divorce, F/M, Grantaire in a Wheelchair, Joly has one leg, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Love Triangle, M/M, Minor Angst, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Multi, Physical Disability, Pregnancy, Romance, The Treacle Trio, Transphobia, kind of, lots of fluff, lots of puns, more like a square, older Amis, or a rhombus, sexual touching, trans man Joly, trans woman Musichetta, widower Combeferre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MissMoustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nearly ten years since Les Amis graduated university, and since then their lives have taken a very drastic change.</p><p>Combeferre, recently widowed, finds himself in need of a new room-mate. Through chance, he ends up sharing an apartment with former dancer Grantaire, who is left wheelchair bound after a car accident three years ago. </p><p>Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are pregnant and trying to navigate their lives around the pregnancy and the difficulties polyamorous relationships face in society. </p><p>After eleven years of marriage, Marius Pontmercy finds himself divorced and living with his best friend Courfeyrac, who happens to be secretly in love with him.</p><p>Bahorel has a new mistress, but he won't tell anyone who it is. </p><p>Spanning across several months in Paris, 'Rebound' follows the story of a group of friends that have new challenges in life to face beyond social justice and revolution. And none of them feel grown up enough to face them.</p><p>*** ON TEMPORARY HIATUS ***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.  
> I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.  
> I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,  
> I'm in Paris with... all points south.  
> Am I embarrassing you?  
> I'm in Paris with you. 
> 
> 'In Paris With You', James Fenton

“ _MOVE OUT THE FUCKING WAAAAYYYYY!”_

 

There are cries of surprise and indignation surrounding them as Bossuet and Grantaire fly down the cobbled streets of Paris on the latter's wheelchair. Behind them, Musichetta is running with Joly on her back, the both of them laughing and panicking in equal measure.

“W-why th-e-e-e-e f-fuck did we-e-e think th-this was a go-o-od idea?!” Grantaire yells, voice jumping and teeth rattling as they rumble across the cobblestones.

“W-we didn't have enough c-ch-change for the bu-u-ussss!” Bossuet replies, clutching onto Grantaire's chair desperately as he tries not to let his feet touch the ground. “ _M-MOVE O-O-UT, WE DON'T HAVE INSURANCE ON TH-THIS THING!”_

“SHIT!” Grantaire screams as they hit a bump in the pavement. The chair slams into the wedge and goes flying through the air.

For a minute, Grantaire feels like he could almost touch the sky as both he and Bossuet are detached from their positions. He smiles and spreads his arms out, the world going in slow motion, when he realises that he's about to crash land into a man whose nose is buried too deep in his folder to notice the flying cripple. “MONSIEUR, LOOK -”

 

It's too late. The man looks up just in time to see the look of surprise on Grantaire's face before they both collapse onto the floor in a pile of gangly limbs and scattered paper where the file has been dropped. A few feet away, Bossuet has landed head-first in a hedge.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks from where his head is between the stranger's legs.

“Yeah, you?” When Grantaire cranes his head he can see the man watching him. He's got high cheekbones, dark skin, soft eyes the colour of chocolate ganache that are assessing him carefully. Grantaire feels the breath leave his body and he coughs.

“Yes, I just... I've fallen and I can't get up.” He smiles coyly and gestures with a hand to his legs. “Forgive me Monsieur for hitting you and sending your files all over the place. I'd offer to help but I'm kind of... indisposed.”

“Oh, of course! I'm sorry, I should have realised!” The man stands hurriedly and walks over to Grantaire. “How's best for me to pick you up?”

“You don't have to-”

“Please, allow me.” The pair lock eyes, both of them watching the other one carefully when Grantaire nods.

“Sure. Under my arms.”

The man hooks his hands underneath Grantaire's armpits and slowly raises him, before adjusting himself so that he's got him in his arms like a bride (and Grantaire _does not_ swoon, thank you very much). He walks over to the chair, which is still overturned, and bites his lip. “Ah.”

“I've got it!” Musichetta cries, huffing and puffing like a Big Bad Wolf as she and Joly finally arrive at the scene. She lowers her boyfriend to the ground as he scurries off to rescue Bossuet, whilst she turns to the chair and sets it straight. “Thank you so much for helping him, Monsieur. I promise pretending to be a dodgem isn't commonplace with Grantaire.”

“I don't mind, it was really no bother,” the stranger smiles, before placing Grantaire in his wheelchair carefully and bending down to collect his paper.

“Allow us to help,” Joly says, leading Bossuet (who now has several Hello Kitty plasters stuck to various parts of his body) over to the group. They begin to help the man pick up his paper when Bossuet stops.

“You're looking for an apartment?”

“Lesgles, it's rude to read other people's documents!” Joly cries, but his boyfriend only flaps his hand at him and points excitedly to Grantaire.

“R is looking for a room-mate!”

“Really?” The man turns to Grantaire and raises an eyebrow, to which he gets a shrug and a shy smile in return.

“My room-mates, Éponine and her teen brother Gavroche, have gone backpacking around America with their sister for a year so the place is empty. I can't afford to keep it on my own.”

“Is there any way I could put an application in?” the man asks, wringing his hands nervously.

If Grantaire were a lesser man (or if he wasn't still shaken from his brief stint at being a bird) he would fist-pump. “Not necessary. Just swing by my place when you've got a spare minute and tell me if you like it.”

“You won't want an interview or anything?”

“I mean, if you fancy meeting over coffee to talk about the finer details then I won't say no, but there's no point in doing that if you don't like your room.” Grantaire resolutely ignores the knowing looks his three best friends exchange at the offer. The man doesn't seem to notice and nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, that'd be great! Here, let me just...” He fumbles in the pockets of his trench coat, removing packets of fudge and receipts and lint before pulling out a business card and handing it over. Grantaire reads the small print with interest.

“Well, I'll be sure to contact you ASAP, Mssr. Combeferre,” he says with another sunny smile. He gets one in return and, taking his files with a swift thanks to Joly, Combeferre says his goodbyes and leaves.

Grantaire watches him go, eyes wide and the dopey grin still fixed on his face. Somewhere in the distance he hears a cough and when he comes to, Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet are all wearing matching smug smiles and are elbowing each other surreptitiously.

“What are you all sniggering about?” he demands and they all titter.

“Grantaire has a _cruuuuush_ ,” Bossuet lilts and the other two explode into laughter. R narrows his eyes and, with a deft flick of his wrists, directs his chair into Bossuet's shins. “OW! Joly!”

“I've got it,” the doctor sighs, pulling another Hello Kitty plaster from his pocket.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac had plans for today. Good plans. He was going to go shopping, because H&M are having a 50% off sale, and he's never one to miss a good bargain. After that, he was going to swing by Enjolras' apartment, play some Mario Kart, maybe help Combeferre sift through the various apartment adverts he's collected to try and find a new place to live.

But all that stopped the moment Marius turned up at his door.

He had his scarf on and was just about to finish tying up his brogues when he heard the familiar rap that only Marius used ( _rat_ -a- _tat-_ a-tat-tat-TAT! Courfeyrac had it memorised). He opened the door and saw his best friend stood there, eyes wide and transfixed on the floor as if the face of God had appeared beneath him. “Marius. Not that I'm not happy to see you, but I was about to go out, wha-”

“She's left me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, swinging like a pendulum only to knock Courfeyrac back. He steps to the side and lets Marius walk in, before removing his scarf and heading to the kitchen to make some tea.

Mario Kart could wait.

 

“I knew this was coming,” Marius says, stirring his tea absently with a spoon. They're sat in Courfeyrac's living room, have been for the past two hours. Marius has gone through all the motions – anger, despair, optimism, denial – several times, and now is just apathetic. This is almost worse than the ecstatic tears. Courfeyrac knows how to wipe away tears, how to use a rag to mop up dripping snot, make a joke to stir a smile. He doesn't know how to mend a broken heart.

“You married young, Marius,” he says, sipping at his own cup. “You've been together eleven years, that's nothing to sniff at!”

“We were meant to be together _forever!”_ his friend says emphatically, slamming his cup down on the saucer. Courfeyrac braces himself; Marius' eyes are stony. Rage has kicked in again. “I don't understand how she can just throw it all away!”

“Cosette has never done anything without thinking it through to the finest detail,” he says gently. “She's not doing this lightly, Marius.”

“I don't _care_ why she's doing it,” he says viciously, when suddenly his face crumbles and he's sobbing once again. “I just want her to stop!”

Courfeyrac puts his cup down and flocks over to Marius' side. He scoops him in his arms, presses him close and buries his nose in his hair. His friend holds him like he's a lifeline, and Courfeyrac would be lying if he's said he's not dreamt of the day where he and Marius would embrace.

He just wishes the circumstances were different.

 

*

 

Combeferre hurries down the road, papers bundled in his arms and his heart hammering as he runs to Enjolras' apartment. He was excited for numerous reasons; one was for his good fortune, the other was for the reunion of Les Amis.

 

The society Enjolras had set up at university – Les Amis de l'ABC – had been a group dedicated to securing rights for the students, particularly in areas like funding, campus rights and gender issues. It hadn't been a particularly popular society, with the majority of do-gooders going to the Amnesty International society instead. But there were a few, starting with Combeferre and Courfeyrac before branching out with Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly and Marius.

The small group became firm friends, and were inseparable during their uni days. Combeferre remembers so many good times with them all (one notable Halloween saw Enjolras come out to them all by attending a costume party dressed as a battery. Scrawled on the front were the words 'Aromantic. Asexual. Agender'. When asked about it, they replied, “I'm Triple A” before giggling in that ridiculous snuffly-snorty way that Combeferre loved).

But after graduation, things changed. Les Amis all got jobs that took them different directions – Enjolras works in PR for Amnesty International, Combeferre became a doctor, Courf a travel agent, Bahorel an actor in musical theatre (clearly putting his law degree to good use), Feuilly a carpenter, Jehan a playwright and Marius a translator – and their meetings got fewer and fewer. Whilst they all still communicated online regularly, social justice took a back seat to their careers, something that Enjolras often bemoaned to Combeferre over late night phone calls. Soon they were only ever really collectively seeing each other at special events, and even then someone was always absent due to commitments with work or extended family. Today was an exception, where everyone had been available for a rare movie night at Enjolras' apartment.

Without knocking, Combeferre manages to free one hand to twist the handle and enters the spacious apartment. Enjolras is busy pouring crisps and nuts into bowls, whilst Jehan sits cross-legged on the counter reading a dense novel. They both look up when he enters and cheer.

“Oh, there you are!” Enjolras says, grinning. “I was about to arouse a search party.”

“I'm not too late, am I Enjo?” he asks, hurrying over and planting a kiss on each cheek.

“No, only Jehan's arrived so far. Courf and Marius can't make it; he and Cosette have broken up.”

“No kidding?” Combeferre asks, surprise on his face as he removes his jacket. “How awful. I'll have to text him later.”

“Mm. _Christ_!” Enjolras gasps, mouth dropping open as they catch sight of Combeferre's arm. “What the hell happened to you?!”

“Huh?” The doctor looks down at the grandiose bruise forming on his bicep, only just noticing it. Despite himself, he smiles. “Oh. I was meaning to tell you, the weirdest thing happened to me. I was on my way back from the estate agent's when a man fell out of his wheelchair and landed on me.”

“Hence the bruise.”

“Yes. But then it turns out he's looking for a room-mate and he's offered me an interview.”

“Congratulations!” Jehan smiles from his perch, blowing Combeferre a kiss which the doctor catches and puts in his pocket with a laugh.

“You're going to be room-mates with a _stranger_?” Enjolras frowns. “'Ferre, you know I have room for you here.”

“I know and I appreciate your offer, but I'll only be in the way. Besides, he's a lovely guy and I'd like to get to know him better.”

“Get to... oh, do you _like_ him?” Enjolras gasps, and Jehan nearly falls off of the counter.

“Who likes who?!” Bahorel asks, having exploded into the room like the Kool-Aid Man. He's followed by Feuilly, who is carrying a bottle of wine and a huge cake box under both arms.

“Combeferre fancies a man who hit him with his wheelchair!” Jehan replies.

“No I don't!”

“I think I read a story like that on the 'Humans of Paris' page,” Bahorel grins, bounding over and scooping Enjolras and Combeferre into a bear hug before swooping over to Jehan to do the same to him. “Is this everyone?”

“'Fraid so,” Enjolras replies, running a hand through their golden curls. “Courfeyrac text me to say that him and Marius aren't coming.”

“Ah,” Feuilly says, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

Cosette is his sister, having been adopted from the Thenardier's foster home by Mssr. Jean Valjean and his wife Fantine at the same time they were retrieving Cosette. The pair of them have always been inseparable, with Bahorel bursting into their lives a year after their mother's passing. The three do everything together, so it comes as no surprise to anyone that he would have known about the break-up before everyone else.

“Cosette knows that none of us hold any animosity towards her, right? She's our friend too,” Combeferre says. Feuilly offers him a weak smile and shakes his head.

“She doesn't want to make things awkward. Besides, I'm sure Courfeyrac would have something to say.”

“Courf isn't the type to hold a grudge. He loves Cosette!”

“Not as much as he loves Marius.”

The room becomes uncomfortably quiet. Courfeyrac's unrequited crush on Marius was common knowledge to all but Marius himself. He'd asked Courf to be his best man and Courfeyrac, whilst grinning and accepting enthusiastically to Marius' face, turned up at Enjolras' apartment in the middle of the night with tears streaming down his face and the crumbled remains of his heart in his hands.

“This has gotten sombre fucking quickly,” Bahorel declares loudly, cutting through the unease. “Get the drinks out and the film on, Enjo!”

The blond does so without delay and Combeferre settles down on the sofa, the room falling into conversation once again. He puts his hand in his pocket and looks at his phone. He has two messages, one from Courfeyrac explaining his absence from the soiree, and one from an unknown number. He opens it.

 

_11:45, 2A rue la Boétie._

_I'll have coffee waiting :)  
_ _~ R_

 

Combeferre grins and punches in a confirmation that he'll be there before pocketing his phone once again and slinging an arm around Jehan, who has flopped down beside him and now has his head resting on his chest.

It's a date.

 

*

 

Bahorel staggers home, drunk and happy. The film night had been a success, quickly degenerating into a game of strip poker. He'd received many a strange look on the Métro at his lack of shoes, socks or shirt.

He stumbles into his bedroom and switches the light on. Beneath the covers, a figure writhes and moans.

“Baz, turn the light off,” the person groans. Bahorel rolls his eyes and removes the rest of his clothes, switching the light off and sliding into the bed. He presses his large frame against the petite one beside him, bundles them in his arms and smiles as they turn and bury their face in his armpit.

“Sorry baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to their hair. He closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

 

*

 

The apartment, as if through some kind of cruel joke, is on the top floor of the four story building.

“You know, in England they built upwards,” Grantaire explains, perfectly at ease in the rickety old elevator that Combeferre strongly suspects has been in place since the Revolution. “But we had to build upwards. It's always been inconvenient, even before I got my wheels. Trying to climb up a flight of stairs drunk has always been difficult.”

Combeferre smiles and soon the elevator crunches to a halt. He gets out of it as quickly as he can and could almost kiss the ground beneath his feet had the linoleum not been so filthy.

“It takes some getting used to,” Grantaire says sympathetically, wheeling himself to his front door and removing his keys. He opens the door and forces himself against it to open it. Combeferre follows him in.

 

The apartment is tiny, which is no wonder considering its location in _le huitième,_ but it's exacerbated by the endless piles of books filling the space, each of them coming up to the height of Grantaire's head.

“Holy crap, it's like the Library of Alexandria here!” Combeferre splutters. Grantaire grins, manoeuvring through the maze easily as he goes to open the window.

“Again, not that convenient if you're drunk or wheelchair bound. Hell, _none_ of Paris is convenient if you're drunk or wheelchair bound. But I love my books too much to try and whittle them down, so I've just become a pro at getting through them.”

“I'm most impressed.”

“Feel free to add your books,” Grantaire continues, heading to the even smaller space that makes up the kitchenette. “I'm always looking for more reading material.”

“You mean you've read all of these?” Combeferre gasps.

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire grins, smiling over his shoulder as he flicks the kettle on. “Like I said, the outside world isn't all that convenient, so I spend a lot of time indoors. Gives me something to do.”

“I'm sure I can bring a few with me, although my collection is nowhere near as impressive as yours.”

“It will be,” Grantaire says sagely, opening a cupboard by his feet and retrieving two chipped teacups decorated with sunflowers. He pours the coffee into them and Combeferre joins him to grab one.

“Thank you.”

“There are four other rooms in the place,” Grantaire explains, drinking with one hand and wheeling himself around with the other as he guides Combeferre through the space. “There's my room, which is this one.”

He opens the door to show Combeferre a room mainly taken up by a futon bed, the walls covered in sketches and paintings and postcards and maps. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and, when Grantaire notices him looking at this, he flushes. “I didn't have time to clean up.”

“I'm not judging you,” Combeferre smiles. “My place is basically a Petri dish.”

“We're going to get on just fine then,” Grantaire laughs, some of the tension in his shoulders unwinding. He closes the door and goes to the next room. “This one used to be Ép's, but it'll be yours for the time being.”

This room is somewhat better kept than Grantaire's, but only somewhat. The bed is a single, allowing for more space than in Grantaire's room. There's a desk under the window, which looks out at the street below and, in the horizon, Combeferre can make out the top of the Champs-Élysées. The walls are bare, save for one Polaroid picture of a young black girl, standing with her arms wrapped around a little boy and girl; they're all laughing, and Combeferre can only assume it's the absent room-mate and her siblings.

“The bathroom is just there and the next room has been doubling as Gavroche's bedroom for a while now, but predominantly it's my... I guess you'd call it a study?”

He opens the door and Combeferre can't hold the gasp lingering in his throat.

The ceiling of the room is painted to look like the night sky, gold swirls and silver slashes against a canvas of royal blue. Strewn across this is a string of fairy lights that, whilst currently turned off, Combeferre recognises they're meant to resemble stars. The window is covered with azure curtains, and the floor is piled high with blankets and cushions and Beanie Babies (“They're from Joly's collection,” Grantaire explains when Combeferre questions him about it. “Musichetta made him cut back but instead he hid them all here.”).

“This room is magical,” he breathes and Grantaire smiles with an endearing mix of embarrassment and pride.

“It's alright,” he shrugs, before turning to look up hopefully at Grantaire. “You interested then?”

“Definitely,” Combeferre says without hesitation. “Do you have the necessary documents?” Grantaire holds a hand up, eyes wide.

“Wait, you mean it? You really want to move in?”

“Well, yes. If you want me to, that is.”

“Oh, I'd like that,” Grantaire says, eyes darting to the floor as his cheeks stain salmon pink. “I'd like that a lot.”

Combeferre feels himself flushing and he clears his throat. “Well then... shall we go get coffee?”

“Only if you're buying,” Grantaire grins, cocksure and confident once again. Combeferre laughs and steps to the side to allow Grantaire to leave the room before him.

He's definitely made the right decision.

 

*

 

"So what's a handsome man like you looking for an apartment on his own for?" 

Grantaire could immediately smack himself in the head for coming up with such a cheesy line, but Combeferre doesn't seem to mind. He smiles sadly and stirs his coffee (black with two sugars, same as Grantaire).

"I mean, it's kind of heavy for a nice afternoon."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want, I don't want to intrude," Grantaire says hurriedly but Combeferre waves him off.

"No, it's okay. I don't mind." He steels himself. "My ur, my wife died two months ago. Breast cancer. I didn't really fancy staying in our house by myself, you know?"

Shit. Shit fuck bollocks shit and  _arse_. 

"I'm so sorry," Grantaire says, reaching over to place a hand on Combeferre's. Maybe it's a little forward for someone he's only just met but Combeferre doesn't react, just rubs his thumb over Grantaire's knuckles in a way that definitely does  _not_ make Grantaire's heart quicken. 

"It's nothing any of us could help."

Grantaire bites his lip and hums, offering a wobbly smile. "I know all about that. Lost the use of my legs after my friend Joly and I got caught in a car crash. Someone was going too fast and slammed into my car. I lost feeling from the waist down and Joly lost a leg."

"God, how awful," Combeferre says.

"Nah, I'm okay with it now. I mean, it's a bit of a pisser seeing as I made a career dancing, but life's shit enough without moping over every little thing that goes wrong." He winces. "I realise how bad that might sound."

"Not bad. Cynical, maybe."

"Guilty as charged. What I'm getting at is, we all lose things."

"Absolutely. It just... it takes some getting used to, you know?" Combeferre smiles sadly and Grantaire mirrors him.

"Believe me, I know. Sooo..." His tone becomes sunnier and he tilts his head, biting into his macaroon. "Shall I get you some keys made up?"

Combeferre grins back at him and raises his cup to clink it against Grantaire's. "Yes please."

Grantaire laughs elatedly and sips at his coffee. It's lukewarm at best but he doesn't care; his insides feel warm enough. 

 


	2. October

They're there as clear as day. Two blue lines. Joly's seen enough of these as a midwife to know what that means. He's pregnant.

“Fuck.”

 

He shuffles into the living room, bunny slippers announcing his arrival to his two partners, who are sat on the sofa playing 'Call of Duty' and angrily yelling at the screen.

“Urm, I have something to announce,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Can't it wait?” Musichetta grunts, jumping up so that she's squatting on the sofa.

“We're in the middle of a live game,” Bossuet adds, holding the remote above his head and tilting his body at a ninety degree angle to the right.

“No, this is really important. Please, put the Xbox controllers down.”

Chetta yells in frustration as the kill screen comes on, and her scream is enough to make Bossuet startle and drop his remote, giving his opponent enough time to execute him. He huffs and turns to glare at Joly, frustration (although no genuine animosity) radiating from him.

“This had better be good,” he says.

“Yeah. Um, see, the thing is...” Joly twists his hands, licking his lips as he tries to figure out the best way to say it. “The thing is... um...”

Bossuet and Musichetta exchange glances and get to their feet, the both of them walking to either side of Joly and taking his hands.

“Darling, whatever it is you can tell us,” she purrs, kissing his knuckles and leaving a ruby red lipstick mark on his skin.

“We've got you, baby,” Bossuet chirrups.

“I'm pregnant.”

The pair stare at Joly, who is looking anywhere but at them. Their eyes drop to his stomach, still completely flat.

“You mean... the vomiting wasn't food poisoning from that dodgy takeaway after all?” Bossuet asks.

“No. I thought it was, but then my period didn't come... you'd think I'd recognise the signs, what with being a midwife and all.” He laughs humourlessly and finally makes eye contact with his partners. “So... what do you think?”

“I'm going to be a mummy?” Musichetta whispers, her eyes gleaming with tears and her scarlet lips spreading into an elated smile.

“And we're dads? For real?” Joly nods at Bossuet, the tears streaming down his face as he watches the bald man's face split into a stunning grin. “Holy shit, _this is amazing!”_

Joly laughs as he finds himself sandwiched between his two loves, the pair of them smothering him in kisses and pressing their hands to his stomach, where the product of their love is growing.

 

Holy shit.

 

*

 

It's been two weeks since Combeferre moved into Grantaire's apartment, and it's been a lot easier than he anticipated to live with a relative stranger.

The truth of the matter is, neither of them is around the other one all that much. Combeferre works night shifts and so tends to sleep during the day, which is when Grantaire is often out exploring Paris. They come and go like ships passing in the night, and Combeferre isn't sure how to feel about that.

He wants to get to know Grantaire, understand the man he's living with. The little he does know, however, intrigues him. For example, he knows that Grantaire is extremely well versed in history. Amongst the stacks of books, there's an incredible number of novels about Louis XIV, the Roaring 20s in America, the Russian Revolution. He's Jewish, although he doesn't go to the synagogue much. His favourite food is melted brie with cranberry sauce, and his favourite ice-cream is pistachio with chocolate syrup. He also has a terrible habit for playing ABBA 24/7.

Combeferre finds that trying to learn facts about his elusive room-mate helps him distract himself in the hours when he's alone. Because when Combeferre isn't occupied, he thinks about _her_.

 

Athénaïs had been Combeferre's first real love. They'd met the first year of university, through Jehan. She was studying Literature and was working on a novel that she finished shortly before her death. She wore berets un-ironically, lingered at bars with a cigarette in one hand and a copy of Baudelaire's works in the other. She created an air of mystery that hung about her like a miasma, but that was immediately dismantled when she opened her mouth; the girl could _talk_.

Combeferre was enamoured, and soon he managed to convince Jehan to set them up on a blind date. He remembers it vividly. It was a dingy Italian restaurant in the 13ème, and they'd spent the majority of the night arguing about all the topics that weren't acceptable to discuss at the dinner table.

“You mean to tell me you've _never_ had sex in public?” Athénaïs spluttered, red wine coming out her nose as he shook his head. “That's crazy!”

“It's crazier to risk getting caught in public!”

“And there was me thinking you were kinky.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

So he took her in the alleyway and he did. From that point on they were lovers. Athénaïs joined Les Amis, becoming firm friends with Enjolras and Courfeyrac in particular alongside Jehan. By second year they had moved in together, by third year they were engaged. But the actual wedding didn't actually take place until three years before she died, and by the time their 'cotton' anniversary came around, the cancer had reached the point of being incurable. She wasn't in pain when she passed, and that's the best he could have hoped for. Combeferre's convinced he took her share of the hurt, and he felt the remnants of that pain every single day that passed without her.

 

He's just returned home from placing a fresh bouquet of flowers at her grave when he sees Grantaire grinning at his phone.

“What's got you so happy?” he asks, smiling. Grantaire looks up and wildly waves his phone screen at Combeferre, who bends down to look at it. “Joly's pregnant?”

“I know! Isn't it great?!” Grantaire slumps back, looking overwhelmingly happy. “I'm going to be an Uncle!”

“That's great, R, I'm really happy for them, and for you,” Combeferre smiles.

“Thanks. They're going out tonight and they invited me, but I kind of thought I'd like to do something different.” He pauses and tilts his head, looking Combeferre over with a small smile. “You like 'Star Trek', right?”

“No, I love it. Why?”

“Fancy a movie night?”

Combeferre's stomach flips and he smiles warmly, watching Grantaire's face match his expression. “I'd love to.”

 

*

 

Jean Valjean would do anything for his children.

This has always been the case, ever since they were small. He spared no expense in securing their happiness, through whatever means necessary. This included sending them both to a therapist after they were taken from the Thenardiers', and again after Fantine died. Adopting the role of both mother and father, he successfully juggled his job as Mayor of Paris (no easy feat) in order to have dinner with his children every evening. He took them to their after-school clubs, attended every school show and clarinet recital. When Cosette turned eighteen he bought them Interrail tickets and sent them travelling around Europe so that they could make good memories in an attempt to overshadow the bad ones.

He cultivated an atmosphere where his children had complete faith in him, and could go to him with anything. So it hurts him to see Cosette so obviously hiding something from him.

 

“So how did the meeting with the divorce lawyers go?” he asks. They're sat in a cafe that they frequent, him supping his flat white as Cosette stares morosely at the tea leaves at the bottom of her teacup. It's like she's trying to read the future, but it's coming up blank.

“They reckon it should be a pretty clean one, if Marius agrees to it. Whether or not he's willing to sign the papers is another matter.”

“He'll do anything to make you happy,” Valjean says softly and Cosette snorts. “ _Will_ it make you happy?”

“I wish I could tell you Papa,” she sighs, shaking her head. A fat tear rolls down her chubby cheeks and splashes onto the tablecloth. He leans over to take her hand and she squeezes it. “I hate to hurt him this way, I really do.”

“He'll be better off for it,” Valjean reasons. “You don't love him any more, it's not right to lead him on.”

“It's not as clean cut as that, Papa.” She goes quiet for a moment, eyes raising to the ceiling. “Do you remember when I first introduced you to Marius?”

 

Of course he does. He remembers it like yesterday.

It had been thirteen years ago, when she was seventeen. Cosette had exploded into the drawing room of their mansion, eyes gleaming and her smile so bright it was like he needed sunglasses.

“You look cheery,” Feuilly commented from where he was sat playing 'Risk' with Bahorel, who was watching her with the affection, dopey grin he always wore when the younger girl was around.

“I'm in love!” she announced. Valjean choked on his coffee as Bahorel's face dropped and Feuilly froze.

“W-with whom?” Valjean spluttered.

“His name is Marius Pontmercy. He's studying German and English at the university,” she explained.

“And how old is he?” Bahorel had growled, looking equal parts miserable, angry and protective.

“Nineteen. But he's very mature for his age,” she'd added, saying this exclusively to Valjean, who was barely listening. This was his worst fear; that his beautiful young daughter would abandon him and her brother, fall for a man who would claim her for his own, take her family name from her, take them away...

“I'd like to meet him,” he said flatly.

“Oh. Of course, but...” She trailed off and he fixed her with a sharp glare, something he rarely did to Cosette but when he did it always made her recoil slightly.

“But?”

“You won't be cruel to him, will you?” And that little drop in her voice, the sadness in her eyes... He sighed and opened his arms for her. His daughter climbed into his lap and he pulled her close, closing his eyes and rocking her as if she were a child again.

“Of course not, my darling. It'd be my pleasure to meet the man of your dreams.”

In the corner Feuilly had shrugged and turned back to his game. Bahorel was watching her, his expression blank. Nobody but Valjean had noticed.

 

“What about it?” he asks.

“That was the happiest day of my life,” she explains, smiling sadly. “I'd never felt anything quite like it, that raw _emotion_. It was like a movie.”

“So what changed?”

“Nothing. That's the problem. Life isn't a movie.” Cosette sighs and twists a strand of hair absently around her finger. “Marius believes that everything can be fixed with the power of love, and it just can't...”

Valjean has her in his arms before the first tears fall. He knows what she's talking about without her ever having to elaborate. A year ago the pair decided to try for a baby. They were so excited, an excitement which rubbed off on Valjean when he thought about having his first grandchild. The first few tests came back negative, but they persevered until one day it came back positive. Cosette had been elated and was telling everyone she knew, as was Marius. Valjean, Bahorel and Feuilly had come round their house to help decorate the nursery. Courfeyrac had bought the child an entire wardrobe of clothes.

And then one night, six weeks in, Cosette woke up covered in blood.

They buried the child in the Pontmercy plot by Marius' father and mother. From that point on, something changed. Cosette couldn't stand to be held by her husband. Marius, for his part, respected her decision, trying doubly hard to show how much he loved her through other means. He took her to the cinema, he sent her roses, he got a tattoo of the bars of her favourite song on the back of his neck even though he was scared of needles.

But still Cosette wouldn't be held by him. She moved into their spare bedroom and then, one month ago, she moved back into Valjean's mansion with a wish for a divorce.

 

“I know it hurt him too, Papa. God, don't I know it,” she weeps. “But that little child was a part of me. And when... when I lost them, my heart just – just _broke_. And there was a time I thought that Marius would be able to fix it, but it didn't matter how many plasters he used, how much glue and tape and _love_ he offered me, because my heart was never going to fit back together the way it did before. I was never going to be the same woman he married, and I don't think he understood that. He's always going to be the same Marius and I'm always going to love him, but it's not that cinematic romance any more. It's not the same, Papa. And I wish more than anything that it was, but it's not, and there's no point in pretending any more.”

 

Valjean nods, hold her closer and rocks her in the way he did when she was a little girl cowering from the shadows that danced on her wall. He knows all too well about change, and he knows how much it hurts.

He just wishes he could stop his baby girl from hurting any more.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac sits at his desk, his palm flat against his cheek as he tries not to drop to sleep. He's been organising holiday plans and currency all day, and now he just wants to go back home and sleep.

But of course, he probably won't. Marius has taken to sleeping in his bed with him.

“I'm so used to sharing a bed,” he'd explained, flushing scarlet as he did so. “I know that we didn't so much in the last couple of months, but eleven years is so long, and I don't like to change my routine any more than I have to.”

Courfeyrac knows Marius' routine inside and out. When he'd first told him he has autism, Courfeyrac made it his duty to find out absolutely everything he could. Soon he became an expert in Marius' mind. He knows that Marius focuses on things with great intensity (languages, Napoleon Bonaparte, Cosette) and will thus learn absolutely everything there is to know about that subject, to the point where most of his conversations lead back to them in one way or another. He recognises that, if Marius feels too overwhelmed by sound or bright lights, he'll stim by rocking forward and backward and pinching his arm to try and steady himself; he also knows to have plasters at the ready and make sure Marius keeps his nails short. Courfeyrac knows that Marius has to follow his daily routine down to a T, or else he'll feel confused and as such becomes unpredictable (he once missed his bus and ended up walking to the other side of Paris to get to work, although he'd gotten lost and needed to be rescued by Feuilly, whose carpentry was nearby).

Courfeyrac knows that Marius' grandfather refused to accept or understand Marius' condition, and encouraged him to feel ashamed about it. Cosette helped him as much as she could, but even she didn't fully understand her husband's condition. But Courfeyrac did, and as such he'll do whatever he can to help Marius. And if that involves sleeping in the same bed with him, even though he snores and tosses about in his sleep like a fish out of water, then Courfeyrac doesn't mind.

 

He's about to drift to sleep when the chair in front of him scrapes back. He jolts and slams his head on the desk, waking himself up.

“Whoa, easy there! Don't give yourself a concussion!”

“Bahorel, what are you doing here?” he asks, rubbing his forehead and inspecting his hand for blood.

The singer grins at him, straddling the chair in a way reminiscent of the choreography for 'Cell Block Tango'. He rests his chin on his hands. “I'd like to plan a holiday to Prague.”

“Eh?” Courfeyrac straightens up, smooths his hair back into place. “Sure, I can help you with that. So how are we organising this; pub crawl each night? Night clubs?”

“I was thinking something a little classier.”

“Theatre? Or burlesque clubs? They've got some _really_ good burlesque clubs,” Courfeyrac adds, wiggling his eyebrows. (He knows this mostly because they'd been there for Combeferre's stag-do, and he'd somehow ended up joining in at one of the clubs later on on their drunken tour. He can't remember it himself, but the video Enjolras took shows him wearing nothing more than a glittery cock sock, carrying an oversized fan. He still has the sock somewhere in his apartment, actually.)

“Theatre, yes. Burlesque clubs... possibly. I was ur, thinking about something more... romantic?”

“Roman- Bahorel, have you got a _girlfriend_?” Courfeyrac gasps. Bahorel scoffs and splutters, tossing his head like a disgruntled horse.

“What the- you really think tha- me, Julien Bahorel, have a – _sir_ , the nerve of some! Well, REALLY!”

“But why else would you want to do something romantic?” Courfeyrac asks, genuinely confused. Bahorel narrows his eyes.

“Isn't there some sort of confidentiality clause for this sort of thing?”

“You tell me, you went to law school.”

“Briefly. I've more experience with 'Legally Blonde' than I have actual law, and you're avoiding the question.”

“So are you.”

“It's with Feuilly, okay?!” Bahorel blurts angrily. Courfeyrac blinks.

“Ur... sorry, you and _Feuilly_? I didn't realise you're gay.”

“I'm not.”

“So why -”

“Feuilly is the exception?” Bahorel frowns as if he doesn't believe a word he's saying either. Courfeyrac nods slowly, opens a folder and take a few documents out about Prague.

“Oooookayyyy. Well, I'll give you these for you and 'Feuilly' to look over, and then you get back to me with an idea of dates and an itinerary. I'll get it all sorted.”

“Thanks Courf, you're a babe,” Bahorel says, tucking the paper into his satchel before he turns to him again. “How's Marius doing?”

“About as good as can be expected when the love of your life's ripped your heart out and stomped on it in stilettos,” he shrugs. “He's crying in his sleep most nights.”

“Fuck,” Bahorel says sympathetically.

“Yeah. How about Cosette?”

“I don't think she's doing much better, honestly. It sucks though, you know?” he adds, looking at Courf with wide, uncertain eyes. “Seeing someone who means the world to you hurt, and you can't do anything about it, it's fucking difficult, man. I know Feuilly's really struggling; his sister means more to him than life itself.”

“We just need to give them both time, I guess,” Courfeyrac says. “And then get them on Tinder.”

“Oh fuck, _that_ I'd love to see!” Bahorel chuckles, his barking laughter drawing attention from some of the other desks. “Anyway, I need to get back to rehearsal. Thanks for the leaflets, Courf!”

“Any time, Baz!” he calls, waving the other man off before diving for his phone and punching in a text.

 

'Hey Feuilly, is there a particular hotel ur wanting 2 go 2 while ur in Prague?”

Within two minutes he receives a text back.

'Dafuq are you talking about Courfeyrac?'

“Got you,” Courfeyrac sings, pocketing his phone with a sly smile on his face.

 

*

 

“It's a simple question: would you rather fuck William Shatner's Kirk, or Chris Pine's?”

 

Combeferre laughs so hard that a dribble of wine comes out of his nose, which only serves to make Grantaire's own laughter strong enough to flip him out of his chair... _again_. Combeferre pulls him back into it and wipes a tear away from his eye.

“Urm, I guess... Pine's?”

“Oh Ferret, _really_?!” Grantaire says, mock-scorn in his tone. “You mean to tell me you'd turn down the chance to see Shatner's over-dramatic come face in real life?”

“I don't think that's something I'd ever want to see,” he reasons.

“You're wrong, he was hot back in the Kirk days. And besides,” Grantaire adds with a smirk, “I bet he yells 'Thrusters on full!' when he's close.”

“Fucking hell Grantaire!” Combeferre snorts, flapping his hands at his room-mate.

The pair of them have been slowly working their way through the original series, going through three bottles of merlot in the process and getting increasingly drunk as they go. Combeferre has demonstrated his hidden ability to sing soprano as he lilted along to the theme tune, and Grantaire's Scotty impression is almost terrifyingly accurate. They've now moved on from commenting on the TV show to critique each other's snack of choice.

“I can't believe you can just eat an entire wedge of brie,” Combeferre says, wrinkling his nose.

“It's the best snack in the universe,” Grantaire reasons. “Melt it and top it with cranberry sauce... fuck me, it's like Heaven.”

“I'm vegan,” Combeferre replies and his room-mate reaches over to pat his hand sympathetically.

“I have a joke. 'How do you find a vegan in a crowded room'?”

“How?” Combeferre asks, already knowing the punch line.

“'Don't worry, he'll tell ya!' D-do you get it, 'Ferre?” he slurs between laughs. “B-because vegans think they're better than you?”

“I get it, R.”

“Not that you're a pretentious twat or anything,” he adds. “You're cool.”

“Thank you.”

“And hot. Have I mentioned that?”

“No, you haven't.”

“Oh. Well, you are. Scorching, in fact.”

“Shut up,” Combeferre mumbles, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment overcome him.

“Naaaahhh,” Grantaire grins. “I bet you're the doctor of every patient's fantasies!”

“Hardly,” he laughs.

“Has anyone ever tried that with you? Role-playing, I mean?”

Combeferre ponders this and a shy, bashful smile crosses his face. “I mean, it's come up a few times.”

“No way! Did you have to do a prostate exam?”

“ _Grantaire_!”

“Well some people do!” he reasons. “It's a valid question!”

“No one's asked me for one of those _yet_ during a role-play. Although I've done a lot of breast exams...” He laughs and Grantaire claps, chuckling along with him.

“You do seem like the kinky type, I must say! I'm too lazy for that shit,” he adds, taking a swig from the bottle they're sharing between them. “My partners usually top.”

“And your partners... what do they tend to be?”

“You asking me what my sexuality is?” Grantaire asks and Combeferre shrugs sloppily. “Whoever will take me, I guess. 'M not picky. I've been with lots and lots of people, all different shapes and sizes and colours and genders. As long as they don't mind doing all the leg-work then I'm happy, pardon the pun.”

“Oh... same here,” Combeferre replies. “Although I've not dated much. I was with Athénaïs for such a long time, I never needed to.”

He goes quiet and Grantaire reaches over and takes his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles like he did when Combeferre accepted the room. “Have you thought about looking into it?”

“Dating? No, I don't really have the time. Besides, it's not been long since I put my wife in the ground. It's an insult to her memory if I jump into bed with the first person I see so soon.”

“That makes sense,” Grantaire says quietly. “But if you change your mind, I know loads of people who'd want to take you out and show you a good time.”

“Oh yeah, because an anxiety-ridden widower _really_ turns people on,” Combeferre snorts and Grantaire slaps his hand fondly.

“Hey, I'm the one who wallows in self-misery here, not you!”

“You have no reason to.”

“My floppy appendages here are inclined to disagree with you,” Grantaire says cheerily, slapping his thighs for emphasis. “But if I'm not allowed to be miserable then neither are you. Okay?”

“Okay.” Combeferre smiles at him shyly. “I've had a really nice time tonight.”

“Me too. Maybe... maybe we can make this a weekly thing?” Grantaire suggests, equally as timid. “It seems silly that we share a flat and don't make an effort to get on.”

“I agree. It would be my honour.”

 

*

 

Feuilly watches Bahorel watch his phone. Every time the screen lights up he lurches over and snatches it up, squinting at the screen and replying so fast that his fingers blur over.

“Baz,” he says sharply and his best friend looks up so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. “It's your round.”

Bahorel grunts and flags the bartender down. “A JD and coke and a Woo-Woo, please.”

“I don't know how you can drink that shit,” Feuilly snorts as their drinks are prepared and the money is handed over.

“It tastes like watermelon,” Bahorel says curtly, before his phone lights up and he snatches it up again.

“Who have you been talking to all night?” Feuilly asks curiously, craning his head to look at the screen.

“Never you mind.”

“Seriously? You're trying to keep a secret? Bahorel, we've _never_ had secrets. From the day we first met we told each other everything!”

“It's nothing! Honest!”

“Baz... are you in trouble?” Feuilly asks tentatively. Bahorel blinks.

“Huh?”

“If you need anything, I'm sure my Papa has contacts who can -”

“Fucking hell Feu, it's nothing like that!” he cries, shaking his head. “It's...”

“Yes?” Feuilly prompts and Bahorel sighs, sipping at his fuchsia drink gingerly.

“A friend of mine is going through a tough time right now.”

“A lady friend?”

“Yeah. And I'm just being her shoulder to lean on.”

“And her dick to ride?” Feuilly grins, laughing as Bahorel chokes on his drink.

“No! Not at all!”

“But you _want_ to be with her?”

“I mean... yes,” Bahorel says simply, and with such sincerity Feuilly can't help but put his drink down and take him seriously. “I've liked her for a long, long time, but there's never been an opportunity to explore that with her. And now she's available but fucking her is the last thing on my mind. Right now, all I want is to make her laugh, you know? She's got the most beautiful fucking laugh, and I've not heard it in so long because she's so unhappy. And I want to make her happy, more than anything else.”

There's a moment of quiet as Bahorel's phone lights up again and he replies, steadfastly ignoring Feuilly's gaze.

“Well fuck me,” he says quietly, and Bahorel looks up with a frown. “Baz, I think you're in love with this girl.”

“I don't know,” Bahorel says finally, swallowing as his voice breaks. “I think I've had feelings for her for so long, but I don't know quite what they are yet.”

Feuilly leans over to clap his hand on his friend's shoulder and Bahorel leans into the touch, smiling gratefully at his best friend. Then, Feuilly raises his glass. “Well, whoever this girl is and whatever happens between you two, I want you to know that I think she's a very lucky girl.”

“Thanks, Feu,” Bahorel says, clinking their glasses together before they down them.

“Oh, by the way,” Feuilly adds casually as he flags the bartender down, “I'm flattered that you went to such lengths to book us a day spa and a candlelit dinner in Prague, but if you wanted to suck my dick so badly you could have just asked.”

He hides his smirk as Bahorel flops off his chair.

 

*

 

“Do you, Marius Pontmercy, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Euphrasie Fauchelevent-Valjean, take this man to be your la-”

 

“You shouldn't be watching this.”

Marius pauses his wedding video and turns. Courfeyrac is stood in the doorway, coat draped over his arm.

“I didn't hear you come in,” he says, looking back to the television and turning it back on. Courfeyrac comes and sits next to him.

The newly weds exchange rings and Marius gets so excited to kiss her that he accidentally headbutts her. Laughter fills the screen and Marius feels his stomach clench.

“Her nose still creaks,” he murmurs. “I kept telling her to go to the doctor but she wouldn't listen.”

“I know, you complained to me about it every week,” Courfeyrac smiles. Marius chuckles humourlessly and swallows the slab in his throat.

“I don't understand how we can go from being this happy to getting a divorce. Courfeyrac, what could I have done? How can I get her to change her mind?” He turns imploringly to his friend, who's watching him with wide eyes and such a sad expression that it just makes Marius cry.

“I couldn't tell you, my dear,” he whispers, leaning forward to take Marius' hand in his. The latter collapses against him, burying his face in Courfeyrac's shoulder and sobs as he runs his hand along the length of Marius' spine.

“She's gone, she's gone,” he wails and Courfeyrac nods.

“I know, dear. But I'm here. I'll always be here.”

 

*

 

Bahorel didn't mean to fall for Cosette.

Honestly, he didn't.

When he first met her it had been a year since Fantine's passing. He and Feuilly had met in Home Economics, when he'd dropped an entire red velvet cake on Feuilly's new shoes. The pair of them ended up becoming best friends, bonding over a love of 'Casablanca' and baking. Bahorel would come round most nights, and that's how he met Cosette. She'd been nine when they first met, shy and round and awkward. But he adored her like a little sister.

The three of them, dubbed 'The Treacle Trio' by Valjean, were inseparable. There wasn't a thing they'd do without each other; when the Valjean siblings got their Interrail tickets, Bahorel bought one straight away and came with them. They were the family he'd never had.

And then, all at once, something changed.

The years passed, the Trio were still close. Bahorel and Feuilly were sat in the front room of the Valjean mansion, arm-wrestling, when Cosette drifted in to grab a book from the shelves. She was sixteen to Bahorel's nineteen, and almost overnight seemed to have transformed from the gangly tween he knew into a woman. Her face had grown to suit her features, her hair had bounce and shine, her very _being_ glowed. It was like all at once Bahorel realised that she was perfect, and his hand slipped.

“Ow!” Feuilly yelped, looking down at his fist which was now red. “Fuck Baz, what's wrong with you?!”

“Sorry man... hey Cosette,” he'd stammered and she offered him a warm smile before leaving the room. Bahorel watched her leave with his heart in his throat and a burning sensation in his gut that hasn't left him to this day.

 

When she came to his house the day she left Marius he'd immediately offered her his bedroom.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” she asked. Bahorel had hesitated; they'd shared their beds before, but every time Feuilly had been there with them.

“I don't know if that's a good idea, angel,” he'd said and her face dropped.

“I don't want to be alone,” she'd whimpered and immediately Bahorel agreed; he could never let her down.

He'd slept better than he ever had that night, with her curled up against his chest and her hair tickling his nose. He held her close, felt her heart beat in synch with his, and for a moment he imagined that she'd always been sharing his bed, that's she's always been his. His reckless, beautiful girl, like a lark dancing in the sunlight.

That's what he's always thought Marius didn't understand, and what he almost resents him for; he saw Cosette as a dove when she never has been. She isn't timid, she isn't pure. She is wild and passionate, with a laugh that catches in the wind and fills his soul with sunlight. And he loves her for it. _God_ , how he loves her for it.

 

“Thank you for letting me stay here tonight,” Cosette says, stripping her shirt and trousers and reaching for her pyjamas, completely at ease in front of him.

“You can't keep doing this though, angel,” he replies from the bed, book in his hands ('Bridget Jones', still an absolute classic, despite what Feuilly says) and glasses on the end of his nose. “Feuilly and Jean will get suspicious.”

“We've always been friends, why would they?”

“Because you've never hidden the fact you're coming round from them before,” he reasons. She yanks her top over her head and clambers in beside him, nudging her head under his arm so that she's nestled against his chest.

“I've never been in the midst of divorce proceedings before either,” she retorts. “It just wouldn't seem proper and... I don't know, I just don't want to let them know right now.”

“I wouldn't pressure you into doing anything, don't worry.” He presses a kiss to her hair and looks back to his book before a thought enters his mind. “I was thinking... would you want to go away for a bit?”

“Where?” she frowns.

“Prague? I know you've always wanted to visit the castle and I'm in talks with Jehan about starring as Gregor in his adaptation of 'The Metamorphosis', and it wouldn't hurt to go and do some research in his own country, you know? It might be nice, to get away from it all for a bit.”

“Maybe... can I let you know?” she asks and he smiles.

“Of course. There's no pressure.”

“Thank you for being so good to me, Baz,” she sighs, closing her eyes and squeezing him tighter. “I couldn't live without you.”

“Neither could I,” he whispers, his voice tight as he tries to focus on the words that blur over on the page. A sentence appears.

 

_'When someone loves you it's like having a blanket all round your heart...'_

 

Bahorel looks down at the woman in his arms and lets his head drop back against the headboard with a heavy thud. Doesn't he fucking know it?

 

*

 

“Trick or treat!”

 

Grantaire opens the front door to Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta grinning at him, all dressed up with bags held out in front of them.

“Let me try and guess: Bossuet is an eagle, Musichetta is a hot dog and Joly is a skeleton.”

“Note the skeleton foetus,” Joly says, gesturing to the print on his t-shirt. A tiny skeleton is tucked behind the ribs painted on.

“A lovely touch,” Grantaire smiles. “Are you seriously trick-or-treating?”

“Are you seriously not?” Bossuet retorts and he shrugs.

“Combeferre and I were going to stay in and watch old European horror movies. He's the only person I know who actually likes them other than me.”

“B-but your costume!” Bossuet protests. “We bought that last month!”

“I know, but my plans have changed. I'm sorry,” he says when Combeferre walks up from behind.

“Hey guys. Nice costumes!”

“Tell Grantaire he has to come trick-or-treating with us!” Joly jumps in. “Please, for me? I _am_ with child.”

“Don't submit to his emotional blackmail,” Grantaire stage-whispers to Combeferre, who's smirking. “He won't name the baby after me, it's his comeuppance!”

“What was your costume?” Combeferre asks.

“He's going as a Transformer,” Musichetta deadpans. The doctor blinks and looks down at his room-mate, who looks like he's strongly contemplating his choice in friends.

“Get changed. We're going to a party.”

 

“You know, I've been to absolutely every institute in Paris, and I've never heard of this place,” Grantaire says, adjusting the cardboard chest-piece that makes up his Optimus Prime costume.

“The Musain was our old haunt back at university,” Combeferre explains from where they're trailing behind Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta. “It's where we planned revolution.”

“I see. I like your costume, by the way.”

Combeferre is dressed as a British suffragette, although why he has the costume he still can't remember. “Thanks very much.”

 

They enter to find the entire place absolutely swamped with people in various costumes. An old man (“Monsieur Hucheloup,” Combeferre explains) is serving a tray of drinks to a group huddled in a booth in the corner, smiling at them all and chatting easily as 'Monster Mash' blares in the background. Grantaire apologises as he follows Combeferre through the sea of people until they reach the booth.

“Combeferre!” A blonde person dressed as a Greek god jumps to their feet and embraces the doctor. “I didn't think you were coming!”

“Change of plan,” he smiles, stepping to the side and placing a hand on the back of Grantaire's chair. “Enjo, this is my room-mate René Grantaire, and his friends Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. R, This is my best friend Enjolras.”

“Pleased to meet you, Apollo,” he grins, sticking a hand out for Enjolras to take.

“The pleasure's all mine,” the blonde replies before gesturing to their own group. “The Tellytubby is Courfeyrac, Eeyore is Marius Pontmercy, Khaleesi is Jehan Prouvaire and the gingerbread man is Feuilly.”

“Where's Bahorel?” Combeferre asks.

“He said he has a headache, which means he probably got leathered last night,” Courfeyrac chimes in.

 

They all sit and Grantaire wheels himself into the space between Combeferre and Marius with a glass of red. His room-mate is deep in conversation with Enjolras, and his own friends are at the bar trying their luck at trick-or-treating Monsieur Hucheloup, so he turns to Marius instead.

“You okay?” The other man looks at him, startled, as if he didn't even realise Grantaire was there.

“Oh, hello,” he says, and smiles in a way that immediately warms Grantaire to him.

“You seem a little happy to be Eeyore,” R comments and the other man scoffs.

“Hardly. I'm in the middle of getting a divorce.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, urm...” Marius waves him off.

“It's okay. I mean, it's not – I cry pretty much all the time – but Courfeyrac told me to stop being silly and he's given me lots and lots of shots. So right now I'm just feeling all tingly.”

“That's good.”

“I'll be sad in the morning though,” he adds. “I don't want to be sad today though.”

“That's good for you, Marius,” Grantaire says sincerely, holding his drink up to toast. Marius clinks his glass against his and necks his drink before leaning against Courfeyrac.

 

“So, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, tapping his shoulder, “Combeferre says you're a therapist.”

“Counsellor, actually,” he replies, sipping at his merlot. “I'm employed by the government rather than operating for myself, and I don't have a university degree in the subject. My friend Éponine got me the job after I lost use of my legs.”

“Ah, I heard about that. Still, it's admirable that you're making an active effort to make the world a better place.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“I wouldn't say that's what I'm doing. My counselling isn't having a wider impact on the world. It's helping the individuals who come to me.”

“But by improving their lives you're improving society.”

“How am I improving their lives? I'm listening to them and I'm talking to them which makes them feel good, but in the end the only people who can improve their lives are themselves,” Grantaire reasons, what he calls 'wine logic' slipping easily from his tongue. “They can talk all they want but if they don't help themselves then nothing I say will make a difference.”

“You shouldn't deny your impact like that,” Enjolras says emphatically. “Even small pebbles cause a ripple on the lake.”

“That's a beautiful image, but it's not true. Pebbles sink to the bottom where the sludge and decay is. If I am a pebble then that's where I'm headed. Where we're all headed eventually.”

“Fucking hell, you're cynical,” the blonde frowns and Grantaire goes to speak again when Bossuet bounds over.

“R, they're playing our song! Come dance!” He scurries away before Grantaire can reply. He sighs and looks to Combeferre with an apologetic smile.

“Come with me?”

“Sure.”

 

Grantaire isn't quite sure how it happened. One minute he was sat debating with a blonde god, the next he's leading a conga line with Combeferre on his lap and Musichetta balanced on the head of his chair.

“I can't even kick my legs out!” he cries into Combeferre's ears and the doctor laughs.

Courfeyrac and Marius bop past them, carrying Joly in their arms to the bathroom, which they've fashioned like a throne. “He's carrying precious cargo, move!”

“I'd better go make sure he's alright,” Musichetta says, jumping down and scurrying after them as the conga line disbands and a slow song switches on.

“May I have this dance?” Grantaire asks and Combeferre slides his arms around his neck, nodding.

They spin in circles (R finds that since he's lost feeling from the waist down, his old waltz moves don't have quite the same effect) as the lights go soft and the world trickles to an almost-halt.

“Are you having fun?” he asks Combeferre and his room-mate grins sloppily at him from behind his glasses.

“I'm always having a good time when I'm with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I got lucky finding you,” he says and Grantaire shakes his head.

“I'm the lucky one.”

“Pfft.” Combeferre blinks and his brow puckers. “Huh.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just felt a little funny in my tummy.”

“Oh fuck, you're not going to be sick are you? Only believe me, getting vomit out of a wheelchair is fucking difficult.”

“No, it just felt a little... it's going to sound ridiculous, kind of like butterflies.”

“Oh.” Grantaire's eyes go wide and he looks up at Combeferre, who still looks confused. “Ferret?”

“Mm?” He looks down, fingers trailing along Grantaire's neck absently. He swallows and shakes his head.

“It's nothing. Let's keep dancing.”

“Okay,” Combeferre smiles, and rests his forehead against Grantaire's as the music continues to play and Courfeyrac (who now has shed his Tellytubby costume and is wearing nothing but a sparkling cock sock) sprints past them to try and drag Jehan into a waltz. Meanwhile, Joly is in a passionate discussion with Enjolras about transphobia in the media, Chetta, Bossuet and Feuilly are doing shots in various colours of the rainbow, and Marius is looking for the group, only he's facing the wrong way and they're all sat directly behind him.

But Grantaire doesn't notice any of this. Right now he's watching Combeferre, who is smiling like he's never been happier, skirts rustling as they continue to move in lethargic circles, hands warm and soft against his neck, and wishing this night would never end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own "Bridget Jones" or claim any rights to it; those go entirely to Helen Fielding. I just love that quote so much (and Bahorel is such a chick-flick fan, come on)


	3. November

“What is this, Lesgles?”

 

Bossuet looks at where his boss is pointing. “A bowl of pea soup?”

“Look closer.” He squints and sees what his boss is talking about. A long, bright red strand of hair is curled in the broth like a worm.

“Oh. Gross.”

“Yes, it is. Very gross.” The moustachioed man stands up, looking at Bossuet with narrowed eyes. “We shouldn't have hair in our soup, should we Lesgles?”

“No sir.”

“Care to explain why there is?”

“Maybe it was Gibelotte?” he suggests with a shrug. “Her hair's bright red, and sometimes it slips out of her hair-tie.”

“No, I don't think it was her,” his boss interjects. “I think it was you.”

“ _Me_?” Bossuet echoes incredulously.

“Yes, you. You don't wear a hair net.”

Bossuet raises a hand to his completely smooth, bald head. “Urm, no, sir. I don't.”

“Which goes against kitchen health-and-safety regulations.”

“I didn't think I needed to -”

“Exactly. You're a loose cannon, Lesgles. I can't afford it.” Bossuet can feel his blood run cold and curdle in his veins, blocking the pathways and stopping his heart.

“W-what are you saying?”

“I'm letting you go.”

“Sir... no, you can't!” he cries, reaching out and taking the man's hands in his. “Please, I need this job!”

“You should have thought about that before you violated safety regulations!” his boss snaps, wrenching his hands away with disgust.

“Please! My boyfriend is having a baby!” The man blinks before pointing to the door.

“Get out.”

 

Bossuet shuffles into Grantaire's apartment, weaving in and out of the piles of books as he tries to think of a way to break the news to his partners. He can hear Joly and Musichetta laughing, accompanied by Grantaire and Combeferre.

“And so _she_ says, 'No thanks, I'm already looking at one!'” Grantaire screeches. The room erupts into more laughter, when Joly turns and sees Bossuet.

“Oh, hey baby!” He stands up and walks over. He's not yet showing, but the sheer knowledge that his child is growing in there is enough to strike Bossuet of just how screwed he is. He bites his lip and begins to cry. “Boss?! Honey, what's the matter?”

“I-I l-lost my jo-o-o-b!” he wails, burying his face into the crook of Joly's shoulder.

“Oh no,” Joly murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down his boyfriend's spine.

Musichetta flocks over and crushes them both into a hug, pressing repeated kisses on the top of his head. Grantaire looks helplessly at the scene unfold, quickly glancing to Combeferre who's biting his lip.

“Excuse me,” he says, and Bossuet peeks out from where his head is resting.

“Yes, Ferre?”

“I think I might have a solution, if you don't mind to hear it.” The room focuses on him and he coughs. “There's a job going as canteen manager at the hospital. You'd be in charge of preparing the canteen meals, operating the 'Meals on Wheels' service and organising the tuck shop. It doesn't pay much but if you have experience in the catering industry -”

“I've worked seven catering jobs this past year already!” Bossuet interjects excitedly.

“I can have an interview set up for you ASAP. Whilst I can't guarantee you the job, I'm friendly with a lot of the canteen staff so I'm sure I can have a word.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , thank you so much Combeferre!” Musichetta cries as Bossuet collapses into Joly again, this time sobbing with relief.

Who can tell him he has bad luck now?

 

*

 

“That was a lovely thing you did for Bossuet.”

 

Combeferre looks up from where he's cooking noodles to Grantaire, who's sat by the window with a book in his hands.

“It's no skin off my nose,” he says and his room-mate shrugs.

“Just because it doesn't mean much to you, doesn't mean it's not important. With this baby on the way, Boss can't afford to lose his job. You've saved them all from a tricky situation.”

“He hasn't got the job yet,” Combeferre reminds him gently. Grantaire snorts.

“Bossuet might not be very good at holding a job, but he makes up for it by securing a new one very quickly. He's got more charisma in his pinky finger than most people have in their entire bodies. God's way of reimbursing him for all his clumsiness.”

“I suppose so.” Combeferre pours the noodles and Quorn mince sauce into two bowls and walks over to Grantaire, placing the bowl on his lap. He goes to sit in his own chair when Grantaire's hand falls on his wrist. He looks into his eyes and can feel his heart stop.

“You're a good man, Emile.” He swallows and dips his head to kiss Combeferre's open palm. His breath hitches and he's almost thankful when Grantaire releases him in favour of returning to his book, bowl still balancing on his immobile legs.

“Thank you,” he mutters, before turning and flocking to his room.

 

Later than night he touches himself, face buried in his pillow to stifle his moans as he thinks of dark hair, wild eyes and a laugh that lights up the entire city.

He's uncertain if he's thinking of Athénaïs or Grantaire when he comes.

 

*

 

Feuilly hisses as his blade nicks the skin of his thumb, slicing it open and sending a shock through his veins. He curses and grabs a rag from the side, wrapping his wound with it. It's paper-cut thin, which in his experience always hurts more than the larger injuries.

He looks to the toy mouse that he's been working on. It's half-formed, the rump and tail now perfectly shaped, albeit stained with blood. He'll have to disinfect it and paint over the smudge with some dark colour.

He goes to find his maroon paint when he hears the door to his workshop open. He turns and Cosette is standing there, bundled up in multiple knitted layers as she looks at the various toys and boxes that line the display shelves. He smiles and walks over.

“Hey there sis,” he says, placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Hello Feu,” she replies, returning the gesture. He waves to his creations.

“Anything you like?”

“Just browsing for now. Although it is all marvellous,” she adds hastily and he chuckles.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Can't a girl see her brother?”

“You see me every day,” he reasons. “You wouldn't come to work unless it was urgent.”

“Well...” She rubs the back of her neck and flops down on the bench. Feuilly frowns and sits beside her in silence, waiting for her to speak in her own time. “I'm thinking of quitting my job.”

“Oh?” Cosette works at the local library, helping children improve their literacy skills. She'd initially done it as volunteer work, but somewhere along the line she'd ended up being offered a job as the chief librarian. She's always loved her job, so Feuilly can't understand the sudden desire for change.

“Not permanently, but I need a break,” she says. “There's just been so much stress in my life lately, I want to take time out from it all.”

“Ah. What would you do instead?”

“Bahorel offered to take me to Prague with him,” Cosette admits after a pause. “I was thinking I'd take him up on that.”

“Pr-” Feuilly stops and racks his brains to last month. The text from Courfeyrac, the conversation at the bar with Bahorel about his mystery love. “Oh my G-d.”

“Feu?”

“Oh. My. G-D!”

“Feuilly, what is it?”

“I have to get back to work,” he says promptly, jumping to his feet and looking around the workshop wildly. “I'll speak to you later.”

“Um, okay?”

“Love you!” he calls over his shoulder as he rushes into the back room and grabs his phone before creating a blank text to Bahorel.

 

'We need to talk. NOW!'

 

*

 

Courfeyrac looks up at the frosted sky and pulls his coat tighter around his body. Marius is beside him, bundled up in his knitted scarf as his glowing red nose twitches to try and suck up the dribble of snot that the cold encourages. Courfeyrac smiles and wants nothing more than to lace their fingers together, just like any other couple.

'Except you're not a couple,' he reminds himself with a silent sigh. Marius peeks out of the corner of his eye at him.

“What's the matter, Courf?”

“Huh? Oh, just thinking about work. So many people want a winter break at the moment, I'm run off my feet.”

This isn't strictly a lie. As the weather gets colder, the richer Parisians decide that they'd rather go skiing in the Alps than linger around the city for their holidays, so most of his time is spent organising trips to Gstaad Palace, Schloss Lebenberg and Fairmont Banff Springs to name a few. He's always wanted to go away to one of these fairy tale palaces, but reality and a severely tight budget means that the most exotic winter holiday he's ever had is when Les Amis went camping in the south one November _(never_ again).

“Well, maybe we should do something to take your mind off of things?” Marius suggests.

'I can think of a few,' Courfeyrac thinks and immediately berates himself for it.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks instead. Marius pauses and pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, something he always does when he's thinking and a tic that Courfeyrac finds _way_ too adorable.

“Let's go get dinner.”

“Okay.”

 

If Courfeyrac thought that walking beside Marius was hard enough, sitting opposite him in a candlelit Italian restaurant makes the domestic fantasises much worse.

“You're part Italian, aren't you Courf?”

“On my mother's side, yes.”

“I'm not very good at Italian,” Marius says. “I want to be though. Do you know much of it?”

“I was fluent as a child. I grew up in Corsica so I spoke both French and Italian, but when I moved to Paris for university I didn't need to speak it so often so I got out of the habit. I struggle to communicate as well nowadays.”

“I can't believe I never knew that,” Marius says, eyes wide.

“Well, there's an awful lot about me that you don't know, Marius,” Courfeyrac says flirtatiously, sipping at his wine.

“Tell me about you.”

Courfeyrac frowns. “Why?”

“Because you're my best friend,” Marius replies simply. His heart flitters and Courfeyrac smiles.

“What do you want to know?”

And so they pass the evening sharing stories about their lives. Marius talks of his war hero father, of the trials and tribulations of being married young, of the names he'd always wanted to bestow upon his child. Courfeyrac in turn tells him about the time the current carried him out to sea as a child and how he almost drowned, of his first crush, of how his favourite noise is the raucous laughter of his friends. Sometimes conversation drifts towards Cosette, but for once Marius doesn't linger. For once, his focus is entirely with Courfeyrac, and he revels in it.

 

It's in this dingy Italian restaurant, with a plate of spaghetti and meatballs rapidly cooling in front of him, that Courfeyrac realises that he's in love with Marius Pontmercy, completely and truly. And it's in this moment that he decides to tell him.

 

*

 

“You bastard!”

 

Bahorel flinches as Feuilly storms into the apartment, immediately stalking towards him and shoving him hard in the shoulder. “Feu, what the fuck?!”

“ _Cosette_?! Really?!”

Ah.

“I don't know what you're -”

“Please spare me,” Feuilly says scornfully, folding his arms and levelling him with a cold stare. “Explain yourself.”

“I don't need to explain anything.”

“You need to explain why you didn't tell me.”

“Because it isn't any of your business?”

“It's none of my business that my best friend is fucking my baby sister?!”

“I'm not!” Bahorel shouts back, hands curling into fists at his side. “You're overreacting!”

“I-I'm overreacting?” Feuilly scoffs. “Okay, yeah, let's talk about that. How in the _fuck_ am I overreacting? She's vulnerable, Julien! She's in the middle of a divorce, and the fact that you're taking advantage-”

“Oh, fuck you!” Bahorel snarls, shoving Feuilly. “Fuck you for ever thinking I would do that to her! I haven't slept with her, I've only listened when she needs a shoulder to cry on!”

“And you have no ulterior motive? You're not hoping that one day she'll wake up and realise that she's in love with you? Have you even _told_ her how you feel?”

“No. And I wouldn't.” His shoulders slump in defeat and Bahorel runs a hand through his hair, walking down to his sofa and slumping on it with a groan. The fight has left him and now he's just tired. “I would never.”

“Do you know why I'm upset?” Feuilly says quietly, walking over and sitting next to him. “It's that you never thought to tell me. You trust me with all your secrets.”

“This is different. And you know it is.” Bahorel shakes his head and laughs incredulously. “I'd do anything for Cosette.”

“And taking her on a romantic holiday?”

“It's primarily a work trip. No, it is!” he insists when Feuilly snorts. “But she needs a break. And if I can give her one, then I will.”

“Because you love her.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” Feuilly runs his hands down his face and sighs, staring at the floor. He looks to Bahorel, who's examining a crack in the ceiling in a vain attempt to try and ignore Feuilly. “I understand.”

“Huh?” Bahorel's head snaps down and he gapes at Feuilly.

“You're in love with her. I understand. And I'm sorry for losing my temper. I was... I was hurt that you wouldn't tell me. You've felt like this for a long time?”

“Since I was nineteen,” he admits in a small voice and Feuilly laughs disbelievingly.

“Fuck, you've really kept this under your hat.”

“I just didn't want to complicate things. Her life is manic enough, and I didn't know what your or your dad would say.”

“Unfortunately Bahorel, you chose a very complicated woman to fall in love with.” Feuilly offers him a gentle smile and slings his arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a hug. “I won't say anything to her.”

“Thank you.”

“But I do think you should tell her,” Feuilly adds after a pregnant pause. “She deserves to know how you feel.”

“I'm afraid,” Bahorel murmurs, wringing his hands. Feuilly only holds him tighter.

“My Mama always told us that we have nothing to fear but fear itself. She was a brave woman, and she taught me and Cosette to be brave. Had she been alive to have met you, she'd tell you the same.” Feuilly thinks about Fantine and her pearly teeth and smiles. “She'd have liked you.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

Bahorel pats Feuilly's hand and weakly grins. “I'll tell her in Prague.”

“'Atta boy, Baz. I love you, man.”

“Love you too, buddy. I love you too.”

 

*

 

Jehan sits at the coffee table, staring down at the script for 'The Metamorphosis' as he chews on the end of his pen. Enjolras walks into the front room with a bowl of pitch black coffee in their hands, barely casting their friend a glance as they sit beside them and look at their phone.

“Don't you have your own home?” they ask and Jehan only flips them the bird before crying out in defeat.

“What's the fucking point in having a Literature and Creative Writing degree if you _can't fucking write_?!” he howls, burying his face in his hands and gnashing his teeth in anguish.

“You should have studied drama instead, that was fantastic,” Enjolras deadpans and Jehan glares at them.

“What's your degree in? Being an asshole?”

“If that's the best insult you can come up with then I'd go back to uni and study a bit more.” Enjolras looks up from their phone to Jehan's script. “What seems to be the problem, anyhow?”

“This is the first show that I'll have written the script for, as well as directed and produced,” Jehan explains. “I'm adapting Kafka's short story into a play, but it's a lot harder writing around pre-written content than it is to come up with an original idea.”

“What's the issue?”

“I don't think that Gregor's literally transformed into a beetle,” Jehan explains. “For me, I think that it's more of a metaphor for his psychosis. Every day is the same, the well-being of his entire family relies on his pay check, he's a completely average human being. And I think this drew him into a depression. Eventually his family get so sick of looking after him that he kills himself.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly. But it's hard to convey the story of one man's battle with his own mind when people are too caught up on the idea that he's a beetle.”

“Well...” Enjolras scratches their nose as they ponder over Jehan's dilemma. “Don't make any reference to his transformation.”

“Huh?”

“If it's a metaphor and the story is written from third person with a focus on Gregor's perspective, the only person who sees Gregor as a monster is Gregor himself. His family is reacting to his changed situation, but depression causes physical change in a human in terms of how they hold themselves, how they take care of themselves. If the only person who believes Gregor to be a beetle is himself, then it blatantly shows the audience that this is an address on mental health than some surrealist play.”

“Enjolras... that's brilliant!”

“Thank you. May I make another suggestion?”

“Please.”

“Donate the proceeds to a mental health charity,” they say emphatically. “Be sponsored by one if needs be, but use this opportunity to make a change.”

“That's a good idea. We just need a bit of media attention.”

“I can help with that,” Enjolras grins. “PR, remember?”

“You'd do that for me?”

“I'd do anything for my friends,” Enjolras says, planting a kiss to Jehan's temple. “A big name in your show won't hurt, either.”

“I have Bahorel. He's got a cult following.”

“Hm, that's good, but maybe someone else alongside Bahorel. Maybe...” Enjolras trails off and Jehan raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Well... okay, don't get mad,” Enjolras says, holding their hands up, “but why not get in touch with Montparnasse?”

Jehan blinks. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“On the contrary, I think it's brilliant. Ey could play Grete.”

“Why would I want that... that _asshole_ to be in my show?”

“Because that asshole is a Hollywood star,” Enjolras says simply, “and ey are still madly in love with you, judging by the fact you still get texts from em every other day.”

“Which are all ignored.”

“Maybe you should answer.” Enjolras looks back to their phone and cusses. “Speaking of PR, looks like I need to head to work.”

“Outside of hours?”

“Social justice never sleeps,” Enjolras sighs, pushing themselves up and ruffling Jehan's hair. “You'll be fine, my friend. If you're staying here the night, make sure you make the guest bed in the morning.”

“Bye,” Jehan says absently, picking up his phone and scrolling through his contacts to Montparnasse's name (which has had the poo emoji next to it for a year now). With a deep breath, he clicks 'dial' and puts the phone to his ear. In three rings there's an answer.

“Well fuck me, is this Jehan?”

“It's me. I need a favour.”

 

*

 

Courfeyrac and Marius stand by the Seine, the street lights trapped under the water like aquatic fairies. The latter is staring down at the water wistfully, murmuring to himself as Courfeyrac fiddles with his fingers and tries to formulate a sentence.

'Marius, I need to tell you that I'm in love with you and I have been for years and I think you were wrong to choose Cosette instead of me, not that I'd ever say that to you, because you're obsessed with her -'

Okay, maybe not _that_.

He huffs impatiently as he continues to run over his dialogue in his head when he realises Marius is watching him. “What?”

“You're thinking incredibly hard,” he comments with a smile. “I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears.”

“That obvious, huh?” Courfeyrac smiles weakly and Marius hums.

“You're still something of an enigma. I'll figure you out one day though.” Courfeyrac laughs before turning around and taking one of Marius' hands in his.

“Marius-”

“I took Cosette to that restaurant.” He says it so quickly Courfeyrac isn't sure he's heard him right.

“Huh?”

“It was about three months after we got together. She had the lasagne.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It's where I first told her I loved her. It's the perfect place to do that, don't you think?”

'Yeah, I fucking do', Courfeyrac thinks venomously, but he says nothing. Marius continues, eyes drifting to the water.

“I kissed her in this exact spot. An accordion was playing in the background, the lights were misty, everything felt perfect.”

“Why are you telling me this, Marius?” Courfeyrac asks desperately. His friend looks at him, inspecting his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth wordlessly.

“This is my favourite place in all of Paris,” he says finally. “I don't want to come to resent it because I associate it with Cosette. So I brought you here instead.”

“So I'm just some weak replacement for her, is that it?” he says crossly and Marius shakes his head.

“No. You're something new. You make me happier than most things do these days. And I wanted to bring you because you'll keep this place happy for me. I'll come here and think about how we bared our souls to each other, how the river looks the prettiest it ever has, how I didn't think of her once the whole time we were there.”

“What are you saying?” Courfeyrac croaks. Marius frowns gently and shakes his head.

“I don't know. All I know is that you're everything that's light in my world at the moment. You chase away the dark.” He hangs his head. “I don't mean to sound selfish. You're not Cosette's replacement.”

“I never will be,” Courfeyrac mutters and Marius' head twitches.

“How can you be? You're two completely different people. And I love you both in two completely different ways.”

“I know.” God, he knows. Courfeyrac feels tears welling in his eyes and he scrubs at his face, turning away into the shadows of the night to obscure his face from Marius' view. “It's getting late. We should go home.”

“I'm going to stay here for a bit longer,” Marius says. “It helps me think.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac leaves without another word, letting the tears fall free. The unspoken declaration of love tastes flat in his mouth and he spits it out onto the ground. “I love you, you stupid man. I fucking love you.”

 

He doesn't notice Marius watching him walk away, nor does he know that Marius is still talking under his breath. He doesn't know what Marius is saying, because he cannot see and he will not listen.

 

*

 

Combeferre's sprawled on the sofa, back aching and his head throbbing. Work has been a nightmare, and the hospital is getting decorated in preparation for Christmas. As if irritable patients isn't enough, he keeps walking into paper snowflakes and tripping over tinsel.

“I fucking hate Christmas.” He cranes his head to see Grantaire wheel himself in through the front door, his expression thunderous.

“You too, huh?”

“I reckon the whole fucking planet forgets that not everyone celebrates it,” he continues, throwing his bag onto the floor and pushing himself through the piles of books to sit beside Combeferre.

“Don't I know it?”

“You don't celebrate?” he asks and Combeferre shakes his head.

“I'm Muslim.”

“You are?” Grantaire looks surprised and Combeferre raises an eyebrow.

“You didn't know?”

“You never mentioned it. G-d, I feel shit now,” he moans, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Award for the Most Insensitive Roomie goes to...”

“Don't worry about it, it's not something I advertise much. The rampant Islamophobia that's being displayed at the moment makes me tend to keep it to myself.”

“Still. I'm sorry for not paying attention.” Grantaire goes silent for a moment before he notices Combeferre rubbing his neck. “You okay?”

“I'm a bit sore,” he admits and Grantaire perks up.

“I can give you a back rub.”

“Oh, you don't have to-”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “To make up for being a shit friend.”

“Well... I won't say no,” he replies with a smile and Grantaire beams.

“Fantastic!”

“How are we going to do this?”

“Well, you can either sit and turn your back to me so I can rub it or you can lie down and I'll straddle you,” he replies calmly, clearly oblivious to the way Combeferre startles at that. “Although if I'm to do that, it should probably be on a bed.”

“Yeah, that works,” Combeferre squeaks, before coughing and shrugging as nonchalantly as possible. “My room or yours?”

“My bed is bigger,” Grantaire smirks and he leads the way as Combeferre follows, trying to control the erratic beating of his heart.

 

There's something about being inside Grantaire's room that feels extremely personal. When he'd first received a tour of the apartment he didn't examine it all that closely, but now he notices the finer details. Pictures in frames on the bedside table, of Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, of Éponine and Gavroche, of a woman with dark hair and a Grecian nose who looks exactly like him. The bed is unmade but clean and Combeferre looks inquisitively to Grantaire.

“Sit me against the bed frame,” he instructs. Combeferre walks over to him and moves his arms under his legs and his shoulders before hoisting him into a bridal carry, much like he did when they first met. He could be imagining things, but for a moment it feels like Grantaire is burying his face against his chest. He puts him down where told, and Grantaire wiggles slightly until he's comfortable. He grabs his legs and spreads them so that there's space between them, then gestures for Combeferre to sit. He does so, rigid and uncertain. Grantaire laughs gently and leans forward so that his mouth is against his ear.

“You need to relax,” he murmurs, hot breath tickling Combeferre. He nods mutely and tries to release the tension in his shoulders.

 

Turns out, he doesn't have to.

 

Grantaire's hands touch his shoulders and he begins to pinch at the skin, immediately hitting the knots that have developed in the muscles. Combeferre hisses and Grantaire adjusts slightly, the tight pain becoming duller and eventually pleasurable with further kneading. His hands move down Combeferre's back, tracing his spine and _oh_ , doesn't that feel delicious?

Combeferre moans and he can practically hear Grantaire smirk, but he doesn't care. He revels in the sensation of soft, firm fingers plying his skin, moulding him like clay. His head drops back and rests against Grantaire's shoulder, groans escaping his mouth every so often. He doesn't think anything of it until he can feel something pressing against him.

_Oh._

'It's an incomplete spinal cord injury then', Combeferre thinks, before berating himself; thinking medically when one's continued moans is causing their masseuse to get an erection isn't exactly proper.

Inadvertently, Combeferre bucks back and his ass grazes Grantaire's bulge. The other man moans and all of a sudden it's getting too much, too real. There's a pressure building in his stomach, not of arousal but of sheer panic. Combeferre pulls away and turns to look at Grantaire, wide-eyed. The other man is gaping back at him, dishevelled and mouth parted as he pants; it's incredibly sexy, but right now Combeferre just wants to get out of there.

“I...” His mouth opens and closes before he shakes his head and jumps to his feet, rushing out of the room. Grantaire calls after him but he doesn't reply, just pushes into his room and slams the door shut.

He collapses against the door as his breath comes to him in heavy bursts. He claws at his hair, slaps at his forehead.

“He's not her,” he mumbles to himself. “You can't replace her, stop trying. He isn't her, he isn't her.”

 

And in the haze of his panic, there's the dizzying realisation that dawns on him. This anxiety isn't because of a fear of physical intimacy, but emotional. It's guilt.

He's really, truly falling for Grantaire.

 

Shit.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this story isn't entirely made up of lovesick pining. It just makes up a large majority of it.


	4. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a while to update! I moved to Paris at the start of the month and I've been mega busy with work! Hope it's been worth the wait though x

Christmas season in Paris is a time unlike any other. Fairy lights line the streets, which are frosted like sugared plums. Galeries Lafayette, Printemps and Bon Marché are swarmed by parents and their tiny children, trying to catch a glimpse at their famous window displays. Everywhere you go, pastries and chocolates and oysters and being bought and sold, and laughter and excitable squeals fill the cold air. 

 

Grantaire  _ hates  _ it.

 

He's trundling down the cobbled road, being pushed along by Combeferre as they follow Courfeyrac. He's accompanied them on their shopping trip upon Combeferre's request under the guise of needing his help to shop. In honesty, it's to get him away from Marius. The translator has become more pensive of late, barely speaking to Courfeyrac with no explanation as to why. Courfeyrac pretends not to be hurt by it, but Combeferre knows his friend well enough to easily see through the lie.

“Joly's going to need elasticated jeans soon,” the estate agent jabbers. Combeferre is smiling and nodding along, going along with his enthusiasm. Grantaire, on the other hand, can't feign interest. He hunches over, burying his face in his scarf and pulling his collar up to obscure his face. He yelps as Combeferre comes to an abrupt halt and turns to glare at his room-mate.

“Sorry,” the doctor apologises. “Courf saw a toy store he wants to stop in.”

“Does he even  _ know  _ any children?” Grantaire grumbles.

“He's got a lot of extended family. R, are you okay?”

“You know I hate Christmas,” he says.

“I don't like it either, but I can still walk down the path.”

“I can't walk.” He snarls, and immediately regrets it for the wounded expression on Combeferre's face. He sighs and shakes his head. “I'm sorry, I just... this isn't exactly the season to be jolly for me.”

“I understand.” Combeferre reaches his hand down to rub Grantaire's shoulder and he leans into the touch when Courfeyrac's face pops around the door frame.

“Holy shit! 'Ferre, you've _got_ to look at all of these wooden toys! Aren't you getting your brothers and sisters anything?!”

“I wasn't planning on it. We don't really celebrate.”

“Well, _I'll_ get them all something then!” He disappears back into the shop and Grantaire cranes his head to look at Combeferre.

“How many siblings have you got?”

“Seven.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Mm. It's why we reserve presents for birthdays and Eid. Of course,” he adds with a chuckle, “it doesn't stop them all from being positively spoilt by Courfeyrac every year.”

“He always buys for them?”

“Has done since my dad passed away. He knows that my mother struggles with money so the children don't get treated much; I guess he considers it his duty to make sure they get a little something around this time of year, even if we don't celebrate. So they don't feel left out, I suppose.”

“Wow...” Grantaire's eyes soften and he links his fingers through Combeferre's. “I'm sorry about your father. I didn't know.”

“It's not something I really talk about.”

“You keep a lot bottled up,” he frowns and Combeferre minutely shakes his head.

“Please don't.”

“Well... what are your siblings called?”

“Achille, Cyrille, Ermenegilde, Florence, Isabel, Luc and Rainier.” He says each name with warmth, his eyes overflowing with love as he recalls his family members' names with fondness. Grantaire both envies him and pities him; he knows that they live far away, and with the demands of his job, Combeferre doesn't leave Paris much.

He's about to speak when Courfeyrac bounces out of the shop, arms filled with individually wrapped parcels. “Hey R, not that I think of you as a shopping cart or anything, buuuuttt -”

“Pile them on,” he laughs, patting his legs. Courfeyrac dumps them on him gratefully and, after a bit of rearranging, the pile has settled nicely on his thighs and they're moving on to the next store. Grantaire wraps his arms around the bundles, smiling complacently to himself; an idea has formed and, while Combeferre breaks away for a moment to examine a bookstore, he sends Courfeyrac on his way with the request that he buy a ten-pack of envelopes and paper.

 

*

 

“Deck the halls with balls of JOLY! Fa-la-la-la-laaa, la-la-la-laaa!”

Joly laughs from where he's sat on the sofa. Bossuet is Ten-Lords-a-leaping around the apartment, stringing tinsel in the rafters and throwing glitter around with reckless abandon. He's been in a good mood ever since he scored the catering job at the hospital, not to mention that today marks the day of their twelve-week scan.

Musichetta struts into the room, hair piled up on-top of her head to reveal her bauble earrings. Her lipstick is orange-red to match her coat, and Joly can't help but think how beautiful she is.

“It looks like elves threw up in here,” she says with a smile before turning to her partners. “Ready to go?”

“Let's go see our baby!” Bossuet cheers, scuttling over and picking Joly up to press a kiss to his belly.

 

“So...” The sonographer looks down at her clipboard, then back up at the trio uncertainly. She nods at Joly. “You're... the patient whom we're scanning today?”

“That's right,” Joly says calmly, folding his arms and assessing her coolly. “Veillantif Joly. I'm here with my partners Altaïr Lesgle and Musichetta Salasar. I work here at the hospital so I know that the details on your clipboard are all correct.”

“Yes, but, your sex, it's listed-”

“I'm aware of what it's listed as. And it doesn't matter. The fact of the matter is that I have a womb, which at this moment contains a child, which we would very much like to see if you don't mind. Or will I have to take it to our superiors?” he adds with a raised eyebrow.

The sonographer pales and shakes her head. “Of course not, Monsieur. I was just confused. My apologies. So,” she says with an exhale and a smile, “who is the father?”

“We are,” Joly says, pointing to himself and Bossuet, who's grinning dopily.

“Ah, I see. So I'll list the parents as you and Mssr. Le-”

“Sorry, I hate to interrupt,” Musichetta interjects, not apologetic in the slightest, “but there's every conceivable chance that that child is half mine.”

“Y-yours?”

“That's right.”

“But...” She looks between the three of them in confusion and Joly almost feels sorry for her. Almost. “Okay. It doesn't matter. Mssr. Joly, would you care to lie back and I'll show you your child?”

He smiles indulgently and settles down on the bed, pulling his t-shirt up to reveal the slightly swollen expanse of his abdomen. “I'd be delighted.”

 

“Look at that,” Bossuet breathes, cradling the scan pictures with as much tenderness as if they were really a child. “That's our baby.”

“It's amazing,” Musichetta whispers, eyes gleaming with tears. She wraps an arm around Joly's shoulder and kisses his cheek. “I am so, so proud of you, darling.”

“I'm proud of you for not smacking that sonographer,” he mumbles but he's smiling just as brightly; the fact of the matter is, not even the woman's ignorance could dull the fire that flares in his heart, can change the fact that there's a human life growing inside of him.

“Our baby.” No matter how many times he says it, it hardly seems real. “Our baby. Our baby.”

 

*

 

“Are you sure about this?” Feuilly asks from where he's hunched over Cosette's suitcase, re-folding the clothes that she'd randomly thrown in. “I mean, this is going to be the first ever time we've not spent Christmas together as a family since...”

He trails off, flashbacks of the Thenardiers' home forcing him to stop speaking. Cosette, sensing his discomfort, crosses from her bookcase and squats down to wrap her arms around him. He presses her close and strokes her hair, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent that she's worn since she was ten. It had been their mother's favourite perfume and he'd saved all his pocket money to buy Cosette a bottle of it for their first Christmas without her. She's never stopped wearing it since.

“I won't be gone long,” she says reassuringly. “It's just a week. Me and Bahorel will be back for New Year.”

He bites his lip at the mention of his best friend's name and remembers his admission. “Cosette...”

“Yes, Feu?”

“If...” He stops and shakes his head. He'd made a promise. “It doesn't matter. Just, stay safe, okay?”

“C'mon, it's Prague,” she snorts. “And besides, I have Baz with me. He wouldn't let anything happen to me!”

'Because he's madly in love with you', he thinks, but instead says, “Yeah, that's true.” Feuilly stands up and helps Cosette to her feet. “Before you set off, Papa wants us to meet him in the drawing room.”

 

They walk out of her bedroom and down the corridors of the mansion, long and winding but as part of their bodies as their veins. They know this house like they know their own minds, spending copious rainy days exploring it with Bahorel.

Cosette has missed calling this place home. When she married Marius, they moved into one of the apartments owned by his grandfather, close to his own home. It was like a corset; beautiful and proper, but rigid and stifling. Their lifestyle was dictated by propriety and expectation, placed upon them by Gillenormand himself and the public interest that came from Cosette being raised in the public eye. Marrying old money was expected of her, but with it came that continuous sense of duty that was out of place in modern society and yet haunted her like a malignant poltergeist.

The Valjean mansion was her sacred space. Valjean kept work and recreation completely separate; the public weren't welcome in their home. As such, she's only ever felt truly at ease here, where the only ghost is that of her mother, and even then her presence is more of a gentle breeze that drifts through the cavernous corridors than an all-out gale. This is home, and perhaps that's where the root of her marital problems had laid; her house with Marius was never a home.

 

She's shaken out of he reverie by their arrival in the drawing room. It's one of the nicest room in the building, with mint green walls and alabaster moulding on the ceiling, where a gold and crystal chandelier hangs low, casting sparkles around the room.

Bahorel and Valjean are sat on the ornate loveseat, sipping tea and chatting quietly yet intensely between themselves. When Feuilly coughs to announce their arrival, however, they break apart and look over almost guiltily.

“You asked for us, Papa?” Cosette asks, walking over and sitting at his and Bahorel's feet. Feuilly drapes over the back of the seat and grins at her lazily.

“Yes. As you and Julien aren't going to be with us for Christmas, Amable and I thought that it would be a good idea to give you your presents now. Son, if you will?”

Feuilly nods and walks over to the liquor cabinet, which he opens to reveal four neatly wrapped parcels. He brings them over and hands two to Valjean, who in turn hands one each to Bahorel and Cosette.

“These are from me.” Bahorel unwraps an antique binding of the complete works of Shakespeare, and Cosette a box containing a locket with a miniscule picture of the Valjean-Fauchelevents'. Fantine's gentle face smiles up at her and she can feel the tears pricking her eyes. She looks to Valjean, who smiles at her tenderly. “I know that this process makes you feel alone, but you must remember that your family is always with you. We're in your heart and by your side.”

“Oh, Papa,” she sobs, flinging her arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his hair. Bahorel swallows thickly and ducks his head to take Valjean's hand in his and kiss his knuckles.

“Thank you, Jean,” he says, having earned the right to use his first name nearly ten years ago now.

“And these are from me,” Feuilly says, breaking up the pile easily and thrusting his gifts at the pair.

Bahorel opens his and squeals, a noise like a kettle fully boiled. “The entire collection of the 'True Blood' novels! Oh Feu, you shouldn't have!”

“I can't believe Sookie Stackhouse got a more positive reaction than the Bard,” Valjean murmurs to Cosette, who snickers. “Open Amable's present now, Cosette.”

She does so and gasps. A perfect wooden carving of her childhood doll, Amelie, is nestled in a puff of pink tissue paper. She's been delicately painted (an adolescence spent playing Warhammer meant that Feuilly had become quite the miniature artist) to perfectly recreate her original features, her skin such a gentle pearl colour that she could very well be porcelain. “You remembered!”

“You were so upset when she broke. She's much less likely to break now.” She kisses her brother's cheek and stands up, beaming at her family with wet eyes.

“I love you both so much.”

“I hope that this holiday will do you good, my darling,” Valjean says and Feuilly squirms.

“Hopefully it'll be a real eye opener.” She doesn't notice Bahorel glare at him as she loops her arm through the Samoan's.

“Well, we've got a plane to catch! Come on, Baz!”

“Okay angel.”

 

They exit and Valjean and Feuilly exchange looks.

“Think he'll tell her?” Valjean asks and his son sighs, shaking his head wearily.

“I hope so, Papa. I truly hope so.”

 

*

 

“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” Montparnasse says over eir green tea latte. “The fans are so insistent, it can take hours to get away from them sometimes.”

Jehan narrows his eyes and sips at his own Earl Grey. “I was kind of hoping you wouldn't turn up at all.”

“You don't mean that,” Montparnasse says easily. “You worship me.”

“I'm not a member of your little cult, Monty.”

“'My little cult' is going to bring big bucks to your pathetic production.” Jehan's so affronted he doesn't have time to appreciate the deft use of alliteration.

“You know what, it was a mistake to call you. I'm going.” He rises when Montparnasse's hand shoots out and grasps his wrist. Jehan looks down with wide eyes and the Hollywood star is watching him emploringly.

“I'm sorry,” ey say emphatically, before releasing him with a sigh. “I'm just... I'm just nervous.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?” Jehan asks curiously, sitting down again.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, _you_. You, you, it's always you.” Montparnasse sighs dramatically and cradles eir latte, gazing out of the window in that whimsically heartbroken way that got em cast in movies in the first place. “You captivate me.”

“Pfft, yeah right,” Jehan snorts. “I don't believe a word that comes out of your mouth! From a con-man to a robber to an actor; you've been lying for a living since you were a gamin.”

“Hey, wait a minute-”

“This isn't for pleasure, Monty. Believe me, this is far from it.” Jehan tightens his braid and fixes his former lover with a firm stare. “You either treat this like the business transaction it most certainly is, or I leave right now.”

“G-d, when did you become so authoritative?” Montparnasse asks with wide eyes before smirking. “I'll admit, it's a turn on.”

“Montparnasse.”

“Okay, fine! I promise I won't flirt with you if I can help it.”

“If you can help it?”

“Sometimes it just slips out.”

“Well make sure it doesn't.”

“Ooh, I like it when you tell me what to do.”

“Montparnasse!”

“Oh, shit! Starting now!”

 

*

 

Christmas morning arrives without pomp or fanfare. Combeferre wakes up with his alarm, groggily makes a cup of coffee and necks it, but not before craning his neck to check Grantaire's door. Although it's shut, he can hear his roommate snoring gently and smiles. He packs his scrubs in his bag, walks out of the door and rides the elevator down and out into the snow-flecked cobbled streets.

The hospital at Christmas is always a melancholy time. The terminal patients usually spend it in the ward, and there's synthetic cheer throughout the place as the canteen serves figgy-pudding rather than jelly to try and inject some spirit. He walks past and sees Bossuet, who's grinning far too much for so early.

“Oh, hey 'Ferre! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Bossuet,” he replies with a smile, because while he doesn't enjoy the holiday, he's no Grinch. “How come you're working?”

“Oh, I'm going home later! Joly and Chetta sleep until midday whenever they have a holiday so I'm working the morning shift. How about you?”

“I don't celebrate.”

“Ah, that's fair enough. Plus, I suppose it's nice to be away from Grantaire's seasonal depression,” he adds sagely. “I know that it always dampened my mood.”

“What do you mean?” he frowns. “I thought R just didn't do Christmas because he's Jewish?”

“I mean, that's part of it, but he never had a real issue with the holiday before,” Bossuet explains. “He'd come round ours and we'd get drunk and eat dinner and everything.”

“But then why doesn't he any more?”

“Wait.” Bossuet frowns and tilts his head. “Do you really not know?”

“Know what?”

“Oh man, I don't know if I should tell you...” He looks around and takes a deep breath before leaning in close. “Grantaire and Joly's crash happened on Christmas day.”

“Oh my – he never said.”

“R covers up the real damage of the crash very well,” Bossuet mumbles. “The man who hit them was drunk, coming back from a Christmas party. Grantaire can't stand the holiday now because of it.”

“I had no idea... G-d, I feel awful.”

“You weren't to know,” he shrugs. “But if I were you, I'd go home and act like it was any other day.”

But is it really any other day knowing what he now knows?

 

At around eight in the evening Combeferre arrives home to find Grantaire in the kitchen, melting brie on a plate. The cranberry sauce jar is to the side, open and ready to be shovelled on. He looks over his shoulder when Combeferre walks in and grins.

“Oh, hey!”

“Hey. How's your day been?”

“Pretty boring. 'Mamma Mia!' was on though, so I can't complain.”

“Oh good. Any mail arrived?”

“Umm... yeah. Yeah, there's a letter on the side for you. It's from Limoges.”

“Mama?” Combeferre walks over and picks it up, removing it from the envelope and opening it.

 

_Dearest Emile,_

_As-salãmu 'alaykum. Your siblings and I are thinking about you and keeping you in our thoughts and prayers._

_You're probably wondering how we all are. Work is as busy as can be expected; I'm very rarely home during the day, but thankfully Achille and Cyrille can help me keep an eye on the younger ones. They spent their summer trying to teach Luc and Rainier to swim, but those twins are stubborn and now it's too cold to try. Perhaps you can attempt it when we next see you? Thanks to you, Ermenegilde is more fish than human! Isabel has been taking gymnastics classes at school and is doing very well. There's a competition in Paris that she's desparate to go to; maybe she could stay with you! I hope that you've settled into your new apartment well. You're yet to send me the photographs you promised though!_

_I was wondering if you could pass on my thanks to our darling Blaise? The presents he sent to the children were extremely well received, as I'm sure you can imagine! And I must say, it was a welcome surprise to receive gifts from your roommate, as well. The drawings he made for the children are incredible; the dragon he drew Florence was so realistic I almost feared it would scorch my fingers!_

_I just wanted to check on you and see how you're doing. It's been so long since you have visited us. I understand that you are busy with work (and I am so, SO proud of you!!!) but I was wondering, when you're next on your holidays, if you would like to come visit us?Perhaps you could bring René along with you too? I'm sure the children would be very pleased to meet him, as would I!_

_I eagerly await your response. I love you so much, and every day I thank Allah that I am blessed with such a wonderful son._

_Yours eternally,_

_Mama_

 

“Room-mate...? R?”

“What?” he replies, completely calm to the point where it's clearly staged.

“You sent my family presents? How did you even get their address?”

“Courf told me. Don't make a big deal out of it, Ferre,” he adds as the other man goes to speak. “I just wanted to do something nice. Consider it festive cheer.”

“You hate this holiday,” he reasons and Grantaire shrugs.

“True. But I don't hate making you happy.” He pauses and for the first time looks nervous. “ _Are_ you happy?”

Combeferre stoops down and presses a firm kiss to Grantaire's cheek. “Yes, I am. Very.”

They grin at one another when Grantaire looks up and smirks.

“Looks like I can't escape this season after all.”

“Huh?” Combeferre frowns and looks up before his eyebrows raise to his hairline. “I-I don't know how that got there!”

“I imagine Joly or Boss hung it there.” He looks to Combeferre almost shyly. “So I know neither of us celebrate, but I figure it's only right we're in keeping with the tradition.”

Combeferre smiles and gets onto his knees. The air around them feels thick and their faces are so close he can hear the hitch in Grantaire's breathing. Slowly, almost achingly so, he leans forward and presses his lips to the other man's.

It's all to brief and all too long, perfectly chaste but with enough promise behind it that Ferre feels nothing but obscene. There's a tang of cranberry on Grantaire's tongue and Combeferre can't hold back a minute moan that makes Grantaire gasp. After what could have been a minute or a day they break apart, resting their foreheads together.

“You know, the only person I've ever kissed under the misletoe before now was my wife,” Combeferre whispers.

Grantaire smiles gently. “How does that make you feel?”

“I suppose I should feel guilty,” he postulates after a moment of thought, “but I don't. Is that terrible?”

“No. It's human.” Grantaire raises his hand and brings it to Combeferre's cheek. “You deserve to be happy, Ferre.”

“I know. I am.”

“Good. Then let's keep it that way.” His face spreads into a grin. “What do you say we eat some brie and watch 'Mamma Mia!'”

“Vegan, remember?”

“Oh yeah, gross. Okay, you can eat the cranberry.”

“Thanks for giving my family those gifts, R. It means a lot.”

“Anything for you, Ferret.”

“Hey, R?”

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“... Merry Christmas, Ferre.”

 

*

 

“I never thought I could love a city more than I love Paris.”

Bahorel looks over at Cosette. They're stood on the Charles Bridge, the lights of Prague catching in the water and sparkling. It's New Year's eve, ten minutes to midnight. They've just finished dinner, having just watched some obscure play that was meant to be dark but ended up being so absurd they were dying with laughter and ultimately got kicked out.

“You love Prague?”

“I do,” she smiles, turning to look at him.

“It's no problem. One day I'm going to take you to Tahiti. It's where I grew up, you'd love it.”

“You've planned a lot of holidays with me, have you?” she asks playfully and Bahorel swallows.

“I, ur... well, I mean, it's not – HA, you thi- I... um, w-what was the question, again?”

“Oh gosh Baz, relax!” she laughs. “I was joking!”

“Ha! Of course! Y-yes, but um, about that...” He coughs and rubs the back of his neck, trying to shake the nerves from his body. He feels like he has stagefright, but rather than it being some stiff-lipped reviewer it's the love of his life.

Who's frowning at him like he's just grown an extra head. “Julien, what's the matter?”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hands. “Cosette, there's something I need to tell you. And you have to promise me that no matter what, you listen. And please, _please_ don't think any less of me when I tell you.”

“You're scaring me,” Cosette says and he yelps.

“G-d, no, it's not- I'm fucking this up. Forget it, forget it,” he mumbles, dropping her hands. “Forgot the whole damn thing.”

“Forget what? Bahorel, what are you talking about? Dammit, tell me!” she cries, grabbing at his bicep. He spins round and grips her upper arms.

“I fucking love you!”

Cosette's face freezes and he releases her, running his hands down his face and turning his back to her. “Y-you-”

“I wasn't going to tell you like this. Hell, I wasn't _going_ to tell you. I didn't want you thinking that this was me trying to trap you or anything like that.”

“Then what is it?”

“You needed to be away from Paris and all the shit with Marius and the divorce. I don't like seeing you hurting so I thought if I brought you on this work trip with me it would give you the space you need.”

“So you... didn't want to seduce me?” she frowns.

“No. Yes. Maybe? Fuck, I don't know,” he groans.

Cosette is quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “How long have you felt like this?”

“Long enough that I'm thirty-two and I've never loved anyone else.” He shakes his head and smiles sadly. “When we first met you were a little sister to me. Just a kid whose brother was my best friend. And then we got older and we got closer and somewhere along the way things changed and I woke up one morning and realised that you were the most perfect thing I'd ever seen. And it's been eleven years since the worst day of my life, when I was your fucking bridesmaid and had to grin and bear it as you chose someone else. But you were happy and he made you happy and I could swallow my pride if it meant that you were smiling. I'd be your best friend if I couldn't be your lover, because I would rather feel like I was being stabbed in the heart every time I saw you kiss him than not be by your side in some way for the rest of my life. And when you told me you broke up I think some sick part of me was glad of it but then I saw how heartbroken you were – are, fuck it – and I couldn't claim to love you if I just sat by feeling smug and tried to get into your pants. So I wasn't going to fucking say anything, but we're a minute to midnight and you look so beautiful and I don't think I could honestly go another moment without letting you know that you are the single most important thing in my life, and that I love you more than I've ever loved anything else.”

 

Somewhere there's a raucuous cheering as it strikes midnight. Bahorel's crying and he wipes at the tears impatiently. Cosette hasn't said anything, just remains staring at him. She's like a portrait, immovable and perfect and it hurts too much to look at her.

“I'm going to go back to the hotel, y-”

He's interrupted by Cosette leaping up and wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She crushes their lips together and Bahorel, after a moment of brief paralysis, closes his eyes and melts into her touch. Their mouths and tongues work together as fireworks fill the night sky, and drunken song dances in the wind.

 

*

 

This year's New Year's Eve party is taking place at the Musain, as is often the case, and per the norm Les Amis are running the show. Enjolras and Bossuet are launching a 'Storm of the Bar-stille', the pair of them drunkenly trying to pilfer alcohol from the bar while Mssr. Houcheloup smacks at them with a broom. Musichetta is showing her cousin Javert the baby scans, as he's here (begrudgingly) partly on her invitation and partly to keep an eye on the group. From the other side of the room Valjean, who was brought by Feuilly, is chatting away to Joly, purposely trying to ignore the glares fixed at him from Javert, who knew him back in his younger, wilder days and consequently was not a huge fan. Feuilly and Marius are comparing their different shades of red, with the latter declaring his hair to be “Honey mist autumn,” and Feuilly deciding his was “The colour of the blood shed during Valhalla.” Grantaire is sat trying to do the robot while Combeferre does the same, far less impressively. Jehan's in a dark corner making out with someone who, if Courf didn't know any better, would say was Montparnasse.

Courfeyrac has been DJ, but now is taking a break to observe the fun.

“Hey, Courf! Catch!”

He holds his hand up as Enjolras launches a stolen beer bottle in his direction, before telling Hucheloup to put it on his tab. Courf opens it with the side of the table (a party trick he's forever pleased he took the time to learn) and begins to drink.

“Hey!” He looks up as Marius bounces over, beaming.

“Hey,” he smiles back. “Having fun?”

“Loads! It's nearly midnight!”

“Yeah, it's going to be great!”

“Have you got a wish?” Marius asks excitedly.

“For my dick to grow an extra three inches.”

“Really?!” Marius splutters and Courf can't help but throw him a flirtatious smile.

“Well, come to think of it, you standing there looking all handsome, I'd say my wish has gone and surpassed itself; I've just grown by four.”

Marius gapes at him and for a moment he considers apologising when he grabs Courf by the wrist and pulls him out of the fire exit into the beer garden.

“Marius, what-”

“Okay, I know that I'm still in love with Cosette and you were probably just joking but this is my first New Years being single and I don't want to start the year without someone I care about being there so... I guess, what I'm telling you, is that you need to kiss me.”

Courfeyrac blinks.

“You really want that?”

“It's my New Years wish. So make it come true.”

Courfeyrac, without needing to be asked twice, wraps his arms around Marius' waist and dips him down as the fireworks go off and everyone cheers. He leans close and watches as Marius closes his eyes in anticipation. He breathes a laugh and shakes his head, before bending down and -

Marius spews all over his brand new pink shirt. In his surprise, Courfeyrac drops him on the floor.

“G-d, 'm sorry,” he groans as Marius sits up and rubs his head. He looks around him dazedly.

“What're we doing in the beer garden?” he frowns.

“You wanted to look at the fireworks,” Courfeyrac lies. “Do you need to go get Ferre to take a look at your head?”

“Did I get a New Years kiss?” Marius asks.

“Sure did, buddy. That girl over there,” he says, pointing to a potted plant.

Marius squints before his face breaks out in a grin. “Damn, she's beautiful!”

“Okay, we need to get you home,” Courf grunts, bending down and hauling him up. Marius leans against him, then wrinkles his nose.

“Why do you smell like vomit?”

“No clue.”

“Ah. I love you, man.” And while it's not said in the way he wants in the context he wants, Courfeyrac thinks that all things considered, it's not the worst way to start the New Year. But then Marius pukes on his shoes and maybe he was wrong.

 


	5. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as per usual, I can only apologise for how long it has taken me to publish this.
> 
> My studio doesn't have wifi and my schedule is so hectic that I don't have as much time to write as I hoped. But this is the longest chapter so far and I hope it will make up for my tardiness. I'll try and be more punctual with my publishing from now on!

Bahorel hardly sees any of Les Amis any more.

He feels guilty about it, but his guilt is what's keeping him away. He can't face Marius every day knowing that he's taken what used to be his right under his nose.

Only Cosette doesn't belong to anyone, he knows that. After Prague she never addressed his admission of love, but rather continued to treat him exactly as she had before, with the exception that they sleep together now too. He can't shake the feeling that she's perhaps taking advantage of his feelings, but he can't begrudge her that; she didn't ask for him to love her, and he can't expect her to suddenly fall for him just because his feelings are out in the open.

 

They're in one of the more expensive restaurants in the city, which allows you to rent out private booths where you summon the waiter by pressing a button. It had been Cosette's suggestion, not so much for the romantic ambiance than it was the discretion.

“The press have got wind of the divorce,” she explains as she breaks the slice of bread in her hands. “We need to be extra careful.”

“Wouldn't it be better just to stop this then?” he asks her, taking a swig of wine and slamming the glass down with a bit more force than necessary. She frowns at him.

“I don't want to stop this.”

“And what is this, exactly?”

“Bahorel, please-”

“You're right, I'm sorry,” he sighs, shaking his head before reaching across the table to kiss her tenderly. “Let's just have fun, okay?”

 

Feuilly and Valjean have been accepting for the most part.

“She seems happy,” the carpenter comments, two weeks after their return from Prague. They're in their usual bar, some seedy place in the Bastille that is so far from where they normally hang out with Les Amis that their conversations are entirely private.

“That's all I want for her,” Bahorel replies. Feuilly assesses him critically.

“And you? Are _you_ happy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...” Feuilly rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you'd be happier once you'd told her how you feel, but you just seem more down-and-out than before.”

Bahorel sighs and shakes his head, slamming back his Monaco and flagging the bartender down for another one. “I thought... I don't know what I was hoping would come out of it. She never said she loved me back, and I don't think I ever thought she would, but she uses me as therapy, I suppose. She talks to me when she needs to talk, sleeps with me when she needs release – sorry man, you asked – but I can't shake the feeling that once she feels better she won't... won't need me any more, I suppose.”

“She'd never abandon you, Julien,” Feuilly says gently.

“I know. But I feel like this was a 'damned if I do, damned if I don't' situation. If I never told her I'd regret it, and now she knows I don't think I can handle this... I don't know, this _clinical_ situation. I don't think she's trying to hurt me,” he adds hastily, “but I just don't think she realises how much I love her.”

“You promised her you'd be whatever she needed. You have to accept that this may be all you get.” Feuilly hugs his friend, who's fighting back the urge to cry. “I can talk to her, if you want?”

“It wouldn't be any good. It's okay, I'm a big boy, I can handle myself.”

Feuilly pulls back and goes to speak again when Bahorel's phone lights up with a text. The latter picks it up and looks at the text. The way his shoulders slump and his face relaxes tells Feuilly all he needs to know. “She wants to see you?”

“Right now. Sorry man, I've got to go.”

“It's okay,” Feuilly smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. Bahorel nods and runs out of the building. Feuilly watches his friend retreat until his figure vanished completely from sight. Only then does his smile drop from his face and he shakes his head. “Oh Cosette, what are you doing to him?”

 

*

 

Grantaire maneouvers his chair through the labyrinth of books as he hunts down the book he's been reading, 'Metamporphosis' by Kafka. He's read it a couple of times before, but this was always before his accident. Now, he understands the situation of Gregor all too well. After the crash, he couldn't help but feel like a burden on everyone he knows. He became something completely alien to him overnight. In the first few months he needed help for physio, for navigating the chair, for putting his books back in their piles after he knocked them over for the hundredth time and made it impossible for him to move from the spot. He knows what it's like to be a waste of space.

But this sensation is an old one. Even before Combeferre's arrival, he's come to understand his chair. It's an extension of his body, one and the same with him. He doesn't hate it and slowly, with the help of his friends and with therapy, he's come to accept his situation and, whilst he doesn't love some of the changes his accident brought on him, there are things the chair has provided him that he can't deny have made him happier.

_Like Combeferre._

Grantaire flushes just thinking of his name, like some giddy teenage girl. On his way back from the therapist he saw an advert for a performance of the book starring Montparnasse. Grantaire had always been a fan (and maybe had something of a small crush on the performer back in the day) and he's already bought two tickets. He can't help but think maybe he was a bit presumptive to buy two without consulting Combeferre first, but he figures it could be a belated Christmas present.

 

The front door opens and he looks over his shoulder to see Combeferre walk into the room. He grins.

“Hey Ferre, I've got something to ask you!”

“Later,” the doctor says vaguely, throwing his scarf and coat in the general direction of the armchair and heading to his room, before firmly closing the door.

Grantaire frowns and tries to ignore the pang in his stomach that the rejection has inspired; he didn't even look at him. Instead, he goes back to his book, but the words are blurring and he's trying to think of what it was he could have possibly done wrong when twenty minutes later, the door opens and Combeferre walks out again. Grantaire watches as he heads to the kitchenette and begins to prepare a cup of coffee. His back is to him the entire time.

“Have you seen the weather today?” he asks with faux-cheeriness. “It's sunny.”

“Combeferre, what's wrong?” Grantaire says.

“Still chilly, mind you, but the sun is there!”

“Ferre, tell me.”

“Wouldn't it be nice if we went out for a stroll? Promenade Plantée has elevators, perhaps-”

“ _Emile_!”

Combeferre stops, shoulders hunched by his ears. He stands like that for five beats before slowly turning to look over at Grantaire. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, like he's been crying. His skin is pale and evidently clammy. He looks... well, like he's seen a ghost.

Wordlessly, Grantaire holds his arms out. Combeferre abandons his drink and flocks to him, dropping to his knees with a heavy thud and burying his face in Grantaire's lap. He cards his hands through Combeferre's hair as the doctor tries to steady his breathing.

“What's wrong?”

“It's... Athénaïs' sister called. Dorine. She-she wants to meet.”

“Were you and Dorine particularly close?”

“No. But she and Athénaïs were. I've not seen any of her family since the funeral.”

“What does she want to meet for?”

“I think she has some things of Athénaïs' that she's been sorting through and wants me to help. B-but, I don't... I don't know if...”

“Hey, it's okay,” Grantaire reassures him as Combeferre begins to hyperventilate. He raises his head and looks into his eyes, running his thumb across his cheek. Combeferre leans into the touch and closes his eyes, calming. “Where does she live?”

“Saint-Maur.”

“Sa-” The name processes and Grantaire gasps minutely. “ _Oh_. That's where-”

“Me and Athénaïs lived, yes.” He sighs and opens his eyes, looking desperately to Grantaire. “I can't face her on my own, René. I just can't.”

He doesn't even hestitate. “I'll come with you.”

“Y-you'd do that?”

“I'd do anything for you, Ferre,” he says, and neither of them comment on the significance behind the statement.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Combeferre breathes, placing his hand over the one cupping his cheek.

Grantaire smiles and strokes his skin tenderly. The tickets can wait.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac arrives to work to see his co-worker Louise grinning at him from behind her desk.

“ _Bonjour_ , Louise. What's got you so happy? Had a long session with your vibrator last night?” he asks cheerfully.

“ _Bien sûr_ , but that's not why I'm smiling,” she smirks. “Look at your desk.”

Courfeyrac frowns and walks down the corridor. Louise scrabbles up from her chair and follows after him, her smile widening even further until it could split her cheeks. Courfeyrac turns the corner and stops so suddenly Louise crashes into him.

“What the fuck is this?!” he splutters. He walks to his desk, where a huge bouquet of sunflowers are perched. He inspects them but there's no note. “Who sent these?”

“No idea. I arrived this morning and they were here,” she shrugs. “But aren't they beautiful?”

“Yeah, they're my favourite flower...” He traces a finger along one of the petals and frowns. “How odd.”

“It's romantic, is what it is!”

“If I knew who sent them,” he counters, but shrugs. “Oh well, I suppose I need to get a vase then.”

“Courfeyrac has a secret admiiiiiirerrrrr,” Louise lilts, snickering as she darts out of the way of the stress toy he hurls at her head.

 

*

 

“Okay, so who's the birthing partner?”

“We both are,” Musichetta and Bossuet say in time. The pre-natal instructor looks between the two of them before turning to Joly, who rolls his eyes. It's not like he hadn't been expecting this level of apprehension from people throughout the pregnancy, but he's three months in and it's getting pretty fucking tiring.

“Yes, I'm the pregnant one. No, what's between my legs is none of your business. Yes, they are both the parents. Can we get on with the birthing class now?”

“Yes, of course,” the instructor blusters, going red and having the decency to look embarrassed. “I wasn't implying anything untoward, sir. We've had similar situations before.”

“It's fine,” Musichetta says, clearly feeling sorry for her and shooting Joly a sharp glance. “You're not the first person to be confused by the situation.”

“It's not my business to be confused,” she says, but she still won't make eye-contact. Joly doesn't have the patience to be sympathetic. “Let's begin, shall we?”

 

“What on earth is your problem?”

Joly turns round to face Musichetta. An hour and a half later and they're back home after perhaps the most uncomfortable birthing class in the history of the world. Throughout the entire process Joly glared at the other couples who were curiously looking at their trio, and the instructor was too ashamed to look at them once.

“ _My_ problem? Why not ask those transphobic fuckers back in that class!” he snaps.

“ Veillantif, stress isn't good for the baby,” Bossuet murmurs, going to take his hand, but Joly slaps his hand away.

“Oh, like you'd know!”

“I don't know what's gotten into you lately!” Musichetta yells, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. “You're normally so kind and sweet, and now you're just moody and cruel all the time!”

“You don't know fucking _anything_ about what I'm going through!” Joly screams back.

“We're trying to help you,” Bossuet says and Joly scoffs.

“How? By accusing me of being 'moody'? Have you not stopped to think about what this feels like? To feel every single pair of eyes watching me, judging me, wondering why I'm carrying a child, as if I don't _deserve_ to have a family?! Every single day people are scrutinising everything I do, or misgendering me, or making me feel like complete and utter shit! Meanwhile my body is changing, warping, shifting to accommodate our child and it _hurts_! My body is in pain and my heart is in pain and all you can do is call me 'moody'!”

He slumps down on the sofa and buries his face in his hands, sobbing heavily. Bossuet and Musichetta stand before him, uncertain of whether or not they should touch him. Instead they kneel before him, surrounding him with their presence.

“We understand this isn't easy for you, baby,” Bossuet says gently. “Of course we don't know everything of what you're going through, but you don't have to go through this alone.”

“I think it would be a good idea for us to find you a therapist,” Musichetta adds.

“I'm not fucking crazy,” Joly hisses between sobs.

“I don't think you are in the slightest,” she reassures him. “I think that your hormones are out of balance and I think that it wouldn't hurt to see someone to help you figure out why you're upset. Then we can work out how best to help you, in a way that's right for you.”

Joly hesitates and considers this before nodding. “Okay.”

“We love you, Veillantif,” Bossuet says emphatically, finally taking his hand and kissing his knuckles. “We want this to be as easy for you as possible. You're carrying our miracle, and you shouldn't be unhappy about that for a single moment.”

 

Joly tries to smile but it just forces more tears out. But with Bossuet on one side and Musichetta on the other, it doesn't feel as painful.

 

*

 

“Are you wearing a _real_ fur coat?!”

Jehan stares at Montparnasse incredulously, who's stood centre stage and watching him with a raised brow. “Of course. You don't think I'd ever wear fake _anything_ , do you?”

“That's disgusting, take it off!”

“It's mink, it's not going anywhere.”

“Montparnasse, _off_!”

“I didn't realise this play was sponsored by fucking PETA.” But, with a dramatic sigh (because Montparnasse is incapable of doing anything without dramatics, which Jehan hates em for), ey remove the coat and fling it into the wings, only for it to land on an unsuspecting stage-hand's head.

“Can we actually rehearse now?” the actor playing Gregor's father huffs.

“I was just about to say the same thing,” Jehan says with a withering glare in Montparnasse's direction. The star, for eir part, merely flutters eir eyelashes and points to emself innocently.

 

Aside from the fur coat disaster, the rehearsal goes pretty welll. Even though ey were only cast four weeks ago, Montparnasse knows most of eir lines which, Jehan supposes, is what makes em such a success. Although offstage ey are a pompous ass whose only human connections are with eir entourage (Patron Minette, the name maintained from Montparnasse's former criminal life), under the spotlight ey truly become a tormented soul who's driven themselves' mad in order to support their family.

“'And perhaps there are bugs crawling under my skin,'” ey recite, clutching onto the actress playing Gregor's siste desperately. “'Maybe I have always been infested. Can you see them, skittering through my veins? Feel them. Grete, can you feel them?'”

“'Let me go, Gregor! You're not well!'” she screams, hamming it up slightly but Jehan can't help but note that _all_ performances seem over-dramatic compared to the naturalistic way Montparnasse acts. Ey laugh, both liberated and unhinged.

“'Oh my girl, I have never felt better! I'm not some tiny little ant any more, burning under that big old magnifying glass they place us under! I am reborn, my darling Grete, I am something else entirely! I am... I'm...'” Ey pause and turn to the audience.

Jehan's breath catches in his throat as Montparnasse stares directly into his eyes. The corner of eir mouth twitches up and eir next line is addressed solely to the playwright. “'I am in metamporphosis.'”

 

“So.”

Jehan looks up from where he's organising his notes. Montparnasse is standing there, changed from eir stage-blacks into eir normal garments, the hideous mink coat slung over eir shoulder. By the fire exit, Patron Minette is stood watching, hands in their pockets and no doubt on their weapons.

“So what?” he asks.

“How was it?”

Jehan considers the actor for a moment before shrugging and going back to his notes. “It was okay.”

“ _What_?!” Jehan looks again and Montparnasse is gaping at him, so theatrical that Jehan's half-expecting em to faint with a wilting rose in eir hand any minute.

“Did I stutter?”

“What do you mean 'okay'?! That was perfect!”

“If it was perfect then we'd be ready to open tomorrow,” Jehan reasons. “We have five months left.”

“Is this about New Years?” Montparnasse demands accusingly and Jehan rolls his eyes.

“Oh for G-d's sake, Monty, are you _really_ still obsessing over that?”

“Obse- _me_ , _obsess_? Ha-ha- _ha!”_ Montparnasse throws eir head back, hands on eir hips. “You're a fine one to talk! Hunting me down for your production just so you can seduce me on New Years-”

“You really think that's the case?” Jehan asks, now giving em his full attention. “Montparnasse, if you want to quit the production then by all means go ahead. I'll ring Bahorel.”

“The reason I'm playing Gregor is because he bailed on you, don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes! I know _everything_ , and I know that you need me.”

Jehan folds his arms. “Okay, so maybe I do need you. But New Years has nothing to do with it.”

“Then why did you kiss me?” Montparnasse asks, sounding genuinely at a loss.

Jehan frowns and shrugs. “Because I wanted to,” he says, as if it were obvious.

“For your production?”

“No, for me.” Jehan slings his bag over his shoulder and nods. “See you tomorrow, Monty.”

He walks out of the theatre feeling the actor's eyes burning into his back. He refuses to crumble until he rounds the corner, where he buries his head in his hands and groans. It's back again. 

  
  


*

  
  


Marius looks around and wonders what he's doing here in the first place. Maybe this was a terrible decision – no, it's  _definitely_ a terrible decision – and yet, and yet... 

He takes a deep breath and raps sharply on the door, fingers crossed that the right person will answer the door. From behind the ornate oak entrance he can hear laboured footsteps and his heartbeat is quickening, but he needs to do this, he needs it.

The door creaks open and wide eyes appraise him.

“ _Marius_?”

“Jean,” he replies anxiously. His former father-in-law blinks, as if trying to shake away a mirage.

“I- Cosette isn't here, I don't-”

“That's okay. I wanted to see you.”

“ _Me_?” the mayor echoes.

“Yes. As you know my father's dead and my grandpa's... well, you understand. And I know that we were never especially close and that you probably hate me for what's happening but you're the closest thing to a father figure I have, I suppose. Had. I don't want it to be 'had',” he sniffs and Valjean's eyes soften.

“I don't have long,” he says, stepping to the side to welcome Marius into the home he already knows so well.

  
  


*

  
  


Grantaire's trying his best to lighten Combeferre's mood, and he appreciates it, but as they sit on RER A heading to Champigny station, he can't help but focus on the overwhelming feeling of dread building in his stomach instead.

“This is a pretty commute,” Grantaire comments and Combeferre hums.

“It's nice at sunrise,” he says absently. He can't count the number of hours he's spent on this train, going the distance from Saint-Maur to La Defense and back again daily.

He watches as the buildings outside change from the beautiful, ornate apartments of central Paris to the squat ashen stone ones reminiscent of the houses back in his beloved Bellac. His heart is hammering and he almost doesn't notice Grantaire's hand slide into his.

“We're here,” Grantaire whispers.

Combeferre swallows as Grantaire undoes the break on his chair. They exit the train and Grantaire allows himself to be pushed along by Combeferre, who can navigate the area blindfolded.

They come out into the left side of the station, where there are rows upon rows of shops and an ornate water fountain that he pauses at to take a large swig; his mouth is unnaturally dry. Slowly, they begin the journey. It might have been easier to get off at Parc de Saint-Maur, but Combeferre wants to prolong the inevitable for as long as he conceivably can. 

“It's very quaint,” Grantaire says.

“Mmm, you wouldn't believe you're only a twenty minute train ride from the city,” Combeferre acquiesces.

“The perfect place for raising a family.” Grantaire says this hesitantly, before turning in his chair to look up at the doctor. “Is that something you wanted?”

Combeferre bites his lip before looking right and pointing down a quiet road, with naked trees lining the cracked pavement and large houses standing like soldiers behind them. “Do you see that house there? On the corner?”

Grantaire narrows his eyes and nods. “It's big. Must be what, three stories?”

“About seventeen rooms in total, yes.” He swallows, tears pricking his eyes. “That was my house.”

“Oh.” Grantaire contemplates this. “An awful lot of rooms for two.”

“It was never intended for two.” Combeferre braces himself for more questions, but Grantaire remains uncharacteristically quiet, a fact that he right now appreciates.

Wordlessly, Combeferre continues their journey until they arrive at a roundabout. They're stood before a much humbler home, white and post-modernist with avant-garde garden furniture welcoming them to the front door.

“Quirky,” Grantaire comments dryly and Combeferre can't help but smirk. The entrance is thankfully flat, so bringing him in wouldn't be much difficulty.

Combeferre takes a deep breath and Grantaire reaches back to take his hand. “I'm with you.”

“I know.” He squares his shoulders and knocks smartly on the door.

There's a moment of hesitiation when the yellow door is opened. A short woman with hair the colour of soot and eyes wilder than a forest fire stands before them, wearing navy silk pyjamas with Japanese art embroidered on them. She asseses Combeferre silently, before craning her neck to look at Grantaire.

“What's that supposed to be?” she demands and Combeferre narrows his eyes.

“ _He_ is my friend, René Grantaire.” She nods. 

“Alright, René?”

“Please, my friends call me René,” he replies, saccharine. She glares at him.

“I have half a mind to leave you out here to rust.”

“Then I'm going,” Combeferre snaps. She huffs and storms into the house, jerking her arm haphazardly to indicate for them to follow.

“I can see why you weren't close,” Grantaire says in a hushed whisper. Combeferre snickers again and prays she didn't hear that.

  
  


They're sat in the living room, Combeferre's armchair pulled up close to Grantaire's side. Dorine sits opposite them across the coffee table, watching Grantaire carefully, as if he's going to rise out of his seat any minute, perform a tap dance and then break her neck.

“Coffee?” she bites out, gesturing to the tray on the table that's adorned with mismatched tea-cups and a coffee pot with a broken spout. 

“Black, two sugars,” they say together, before sharing a glance and quickly looking away.

Dorine hums, raising an eyebrow at them both, but prepares their drinks and leaves them unceremoniously on the tray, out of Grantaire's reach. Combeferre scowls at her before taking the two cups and handing one to his roommate.

“Thanks ever so, Dory,” he says mockingly and she huffs.

“Look, I didn't invite you here because I want to catch-up,” she says. “It's about Athénaïs' will.”

“What about it?” Combeferre asks, now providing her with his full attention.

“There's a clause in the will that I think you've forgotten about,” she says, a cruel smile pulling up her lips. She removes a piece of paper from her pocket – no doubt a copy of her sister's last will and testament – and hands it to him. “I've highlighted it for your convenience.”

Combeferre reads it under his breath, too quiet for Grantaire to hear and too far away for him to read. When the doctor looks up his face is the colour of linen.

“I can't do this.”

“It's her final request of you. You can't turn it down.”

“It says it's not obligatory.”

“But would you _really_ deny her?” 

Combeferre closes his eyes and pinches his brow; he never could and he never will.

“Ferre? Can I see?” Grantaire asks timidly and he hands the paper over without another word.

“Read it. So we all can hear it,” Dorine demands and Grantaire, after looking to Combeferre for confirmation, complies.

“'The deceased also makes a request upon her husband, Emile Combeferre, to whom she has left her ancestral home in Normandy... The deceased asks that Mssr. Combeferre m-move into the home and make it suitable for a new family, the family that she always dreamed for them' – Ferre, you're not going to go through with this, are you?!”

“Our dad left the house to Athénaïs when he died, but he put it in both your names on the deeds per her request. She always talked about how one day she'd retire there with you when the kids were all grown up.” For a moment, Dorine's eyes are gentle and she wrings her hands, memories of her beautiful younger sister filling her mind. But then she looks at Combeferre again and all her initial anger returns. “You can't just leave it.”

“Well, do you want it?”

“What good is some old manor house in the country for me?” she reasons. “I don't have a family of my own. I mean, hell, even this house is too big for me!”

“But Emile, think about your job. Think about m-” Grantaire stops short and looks away as Combeferre raises his head to face him. The doctor swallows and pockets the will.

“I need to think about this,” he mumbles and Dorine shrugs.

“Whatever. The house isn't going anywhere. But you just need to remember that Athénaïs lived her life for you. The least you can do is live for her now she's dead.” 

“I think it's time to leave, René,” Combeferre says, placing his and Grantaire's coffee cups on the table before walking behind his roommate and taking hold of the chair's handles. 

Grantaire nods wordlessly and they leave, Dorine making no effort to say goodbye. They step out into the street. The air, whilst formerly a pleasant sort of cold that tickles your eyes and stuffs up your nose. Now it's biting and harsh, pouring down Combeferre's throat like liquid nitrogen and he can hardly breathe. He collapses into Grantaire, gasping and panting, and Grantaire fights back his own tears as he clutches onto him, never wanting to let go.

  
  


*

  
  


Valjean sips at his tea placidly, watching Marius fidget nervously in his seat. The boy's always had an anxious disposition – one that he's not ashamed to admit he took advantage of when he wanted to play the role of 'Intimdating Former Ex-Convict and Now Powerful Political Individual With Diplomatic Immunity Throughout Europe Who Is Very Protective of His Daughter' – but right now it only serves to make him pity him.

“To what do I owe this... unexpected pleasure, Marius?”

“How's Cosette?” Marius asks and Valjean puts his China teacup down on the saucer.

“You didn't come here to ask me that.”

“No, I didn't. I just want to know.” Marius looks up from where he's been wringing his hands to focus an imploring gaze at Valjean. The mayor sighs.

“She's doing well, given the circumstances.”

“Does she miss me?”

“What do you want, Marius?” The boy diverts his gaze again.

“I'm... confused.”

“About what?”

“About me.” He falls silent but Valjean doesn't speak, merely waits for him to elaborate. “You know that my whole life I have only ever loved Cosette.”

“Yes.”

“And I do still love her, madly, absolutely, all-consumingly. But I am... I'm confused, because I'm starting to get f-feelings for someone, and they aren't... her.”

Valjean blinks. “And?”

“And what?”

“And so what if they aren't her?”

“Well... she's my wife.”

“Formerly,” he reminds him gently. “You don't owe it to her to remain in love with her for the rest of your life.”

“But I still love her.”

“Of course. But you also have feelings for someone else, and that's fine too.”

“You never loved anyone else after Fantine,” Marius points out, before looking immediately like he regrets saying it. Valjean is unruffled.

“I'm an old man. I loved many women before her. By the time I met Fantine I was tired of that and wanted something different for myself, an honest life. She offered me that. She was my salvation.”

“But I wanted that with Cosette.”

“You may have wanted it, but it wasn't what was right for the both of you, otherwise this divorce wouldn't be happening. Look,” he says, shifting in his seat and trying to ignore his joints cracking, “you have every right to enjoy life as a single man and experiment. If you have feelings for another person you should explore them.”

“But Cosette -”

“Is no doubt doing the same,” Valjean replies, thoughts flashing immediately to Bahorel.

Marius opens his mouth and closes it again before his eyes fall to the cashmere carpet. He whispers something that Valjean doesn't catch. “Can you repeat that? I'm 45% deaf in my left ear, you have to speak up.”

“It's a man.” Again, Valjean blinks.

“So?” Marius' eyes widen.

“So, I don't fancy men! I never have -”

“Never, or you got with Cosette so early in life you never had the chance to explore these feelings?”

“Why aren't you angry at me?”

Valjean frowns. “Why would I be?”

“I'm not only divorcing your daughter, I'm leaving her and going to a – a _man_. That's a sin, right? The Bible says so, it's a sin.”

“ And so because I'm Catholic I'm therefore homophobic?” Valjean chuckles and shakes his head. “'Love is patient, love is kind... It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.' 1 Corinthians 13. Now, I don't know the entire verse from heart, but when the Bible defines love it never specifies gender. It defines what love is, and that's something pure and real. Who am I to interfere with God-given love?”

Marius still sits there, looking as lost as a lamb, and it hurts Valjean. Whilst he was never close to his son-in-law, he does care for him, and as such Valjean considers it his duty to try and guide him in the best way he can. “Marius, I can't tell you what to do. The only person who can make this decision is you. If you don't feel right acting on your feelings, don't, but I always say that nothing ventured is nothing gained. Don't deny yourself because of Cosette or some misplaced morality, because it's not worth it. Just go out there and _live_.”

He looks at his watch and offers Marius an apologetic but firm smile. “Cosette will be home soon. I think it's best you leave.”

  
  


*

  
  


“An entire house? Fucking hell,” Enjolras says, rereading the will for perhaps the billionth time.

“My sentiments exactly,” Grantaire mumbles from where he's skulking in the corner. The blonde looks from him to Combeferre, who is chewing at the skin around his thumbnail absently.

“And you're going to do it?”

“How can I not?”

“How _can_ you?” Grantaire spits, glaring over at the pair of them. “You have everything here.”

“He's got a point,” Enjolras says. “Your job, for one thing.”

“I can get a transfer to a hospital in Normandy, it's not the end of the world.”

“Your friends.”

“We hardly see each other any more at the best of times, if we have to resort to Skype a little more often than normal it's hardly disastrous for us all.”

“The apartment?”

“I can live in the house as I renovate it. Or get a static caravan or something.”

“Me?” Again, Enjolras and Combeferre turn to Grantaire, whose eyes, Combeferre notices, are red.

“What about you?” Enjolras frowns, genuinely confused. Grantaire breathes out a laugh.

“Are you serious?” he asks incredulously and the blonde nods.

“Is this about your rent?”

Combeferre tenses as Grantaire's attention slowly turns to him. He wheels himself a little closer, although he doesn't know the layout of Enjolras' apartment and ends up smacking into the kitchen island, forcing himself to remain rooted. “Have you not told them anything?”

“René, this isn't the time,” he replies wearily.

“Then when is the time?” he demands, raising his voice slightly. “Seriously, Emile, when is it the time?”

“I think that this has been a long day for everyone,” Enjolras says warily. “Why don't we-”

“Shut up for a moment, will you?!” Grantaire snaps, eyes never leaving Combeferre's. “Is that what I am to you? Your fucking _landlord_?

“Well, you are,” Combeferre throws back, before the impact of his words truly hit him. Grantaire recoils as if he's been hit.

“So you... it was...” He looks between Combeferre and Enjolras, who has now put a protective arm across Combeferre and is staring down at Grantaire challengingly. He laughs, broken and bitter, and looks to the blonde. “' Pebbles sink to the bottom where the sludge and decay is. If I am a pebble then that's where I'm headed.' Do you remember that, Apollo? You called me cynical. But I'm not. I'm a fucking prophet.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out the two tickets for Jehan's show, before throwing them at Combeferre's feet. “For you. Might as well take one of your 'friends', seeing as it wouldn't be proper to go with your landlord. I'll see myself out.”

He turns and pushes himself out, his shoulders back and his chin held high as his throat begins to close and his head is pounding. He doesn't begin to cry until he reaches the elevator. He has no idea where he even is, but right now he doesn't care. In the distance he sees the neon lights of a bar. Without another thought, he rolls there and orders a double whiskey.

  
  


*

  
  


“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” Bahorel pants, opening the hotel room door and stumbling in. “There was a delay on Line 4, I had to transfer at fucking Chatelet and-”

He stops and takes a moment to properly look at Cosette. In her hands is something thin and white, like a thermometer. “Angel? What's that?”

Wordlessly, she holds it out to him. He takes it and the first thing that hits him is two blue lines. “I don't... what-”

“I'm pregnant, Julien.” She finally looks up and her cornflower blue eyes are shining, mascara dripping down her cheeks in rivulets. “You're the father.”

 


	6. February

Cosette remembers every vivid detail. 

The sensation of the blood on her thighs, the agonising pain that burned inside her, the sheer panic that overwhelmed her senses. She can feel the clammy pressure of Marius' hand on hers, hear the urgent voices of the various doctors and nurses who clamoured around her, and finally that moment where she woke up and felt completely empty.  
Her hand drifts to her stomach, completely flat but full, full, brimming with new life. 

How she _loathes_ it. 

Bahorel is sat opposite her, his hands resting in front of him as he watches her anxiously. That night in the hotel she'd told him that she wanted some space away from him, to think about it all. And now, today, she's summoned him back. Like an obligated genie, he has come.

“I think I want an abortion,” she says firmly. Bahorel's hands tremble slightly but his expression reveals nothing. 

“Okay.” She frowns.

“You're not going to say anything?”

“Your body, your choice,” he mutters, licking his lips and looking down at some abandoned grains of salt on the table. They ordered their food twenty minutes ago, and it's not even certain if the waitress has sent it to the kitchen yet. 

“It's your child too,” she reasons.

“If you want an abortion, you're having an abortion,” he snaps and she baulks. 

“This isn't a reflection on how I feel about you, Julien.”

“I couldn't give a shit what you think about me.” Cosette swallows.

“I understand that this... arrangement, has been difficult-”

“No you don't. You're never going to get it,” he says with a sigh. “But it doesn't matter, I chose this.”

“You can leave me, you know.”

“I'd never leave you,” Bahorel explains, before adding, “not that we're together.” 

She stares down at the salt too, her eyes filling with tears that she refuses to shed. “I think this discussion has reached its course, don't you?”

“If you say so.” 

She gets to her feet and rubs at her eyes impatiently, before throwing a 20 at the table for her uneaten food. “I'm late for tea with Enjolras.” She pauses and glances at him. “They all miss you, you know.” 

Bahorel grits his teeth and nods, his own eyes dampening. “I've been otherwise preoccupied.”

She tries to think of what to say but nothing comes to mind, so she just sighs and turns her back on him. She can feel him watching her but she doesn't care, she tells herself that she doesn't care, that this pain in her heart is just acid reflux. She ties her Burberry trench coat around her waist and removes her phone from her pocket, confirming with Enjolras the location for their tea and determinedly not thinking about the man she can hear crying behind her.

 

*

 

“So how's Joly doing?”

Musichetta swings her legs from where she's sat on the countertop in Javert's kitchen, the delicious smell of dumplings and pork warming the room and giving it a soothing, homely feel. He's bumbling around with his pinafore on, throwing seasoning into the pan absently while slurping at his coffee and talking to Musichetta at the same time.

“Better. Since he was diagnosed with pre-natal depression, it's been a lot easier figuring out how to help him and the like.” Her cousin nods encouragingly.

“That's good then.”

“Yeah. It's still hard though,” she adds after a pause.

“How come?” 

“Well...” She rubs the back of her neck, her silence prompting Javert to look up from his stew. 

“What is it?”

“I... I can't help but envy him, you know?” Javert blinks.

“No, I don't. You envy his depression?”

“Don't be absurd,” she snaps. “I envy that he's the one carrying the child and not... not...”

“You?” She nods and he sighs, removing his oven gloves and shoving her up so he could hop next to her. Reaching behind her to grab a bottle of red, he breaks it open and hands it to her. She takes a swig and passes it back. “Listen... I'm not going to pretend I understand how all this gender politics works. I've tried my best, but I'm still pretty ignorant in the subject, so if I say anything improper I apologise posthumously.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you knew from the beginning that it wouldn't be biologically possible for you to-”

“I'm not fucking stupid, Sebastian!” she snaps. “I know I can't _actually_ carry the child. But I wish I could.”

“But why? It doesn't look like it's doing Joly any favours. Depression, painful bodily changes, labour... it doesn't sound fun.”

“But isn't that what defines a woman? Her ability to carry a child?”

“Now you're being fucking stupid,” Javert snorts, taking another hit from the wine bottle. “Womanhood isn't determined by whether or not you can get pregnant. There are plenty of infertile cis women, or women who can have kids but choose not to. You wouldn't consider them any less of women for not carrying a child, so neither are you. Furthermore, your boyfriend is pregnant, and he's anything but a woman, right?”

“I know, it just feels like... I dunno, a right of passage or something.”

“There's no test that determines which gender you are. You decide that. I know that you'd love the chance to be pregnant, but unfortunately you have to accept that that isn't going to happen. But my G-d, think how amazing it's going to feel when you hold that baby in your arms and you're a mother.” 

Musichetta sniffs and leans into Javert, who puts an arm round her shoulders. 

“You know, you're a big old teddy bear really,” she giggles and he squeezes her.

“Don't you dare go telling people that, or I'll have to arrest you.”

 

*

 

Combeferre stares at the study door, shaking his hands and taking deep breaths as he tries to prepare himself. From the other side, he can hear ABBA's 'The Winner Takes it All' playing quietly and it's so funny it's not funny at all. 

He and Grantaire have barely spoken in nearly four weeks. The weekly film nights stopped, they stopped making dinner for one another, they stopped even looking at each other if they could help it. Grantaire either spent all his time in his room or the study, which he's taken to keeping locked. Combeferre tries to keep to his room too, mostly so Grantaire can't see him looking through all the legal documents regarding the house and its renovations. 

But now, he's had enough. 

With one last breath, he knocks on the study door. The music stops and there's a minute of silence. He swallows.

“R? It's me.”

There's more silence when finally he can hear a body flump into a wheelchair. There's the roll of the wheels, the rattle of a lock, and the next thing he knows Grantaire is peering up at him through the crack in the door.

“What?” he deadpans. His throat is croaky and his eyes blurry; he's just woken up.

Combeferre bites his lip and removes a hand from behind his back. A parcel wrapped in neon green paper is resting there, no bigger than his palm. “Happy birthday,” he smiles anxiously. 

Grantaire looks from him to the parcel and back to him. Cautiously, the door opens a little bit more and Combeferre can see inside. The fairy lights are switched on and the Beanie Babies have been arranged so that they're forming a wall, which must have surrounded a sleeping Grantaire. 

“Thanks.” He takes the present and tosses it gently onto the bed. Combeferre winces, thankful he didn't buy anything breakable, before wringing his hands. Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” he blurts.

Grantaire blinks before shrugging. “A roll might be better suited to me.”

And there's a flash of humour in his eyes, a ghost of the old look he used to shoot Combeferre's way every day that warms him to his core. He laughs softly and nods.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Let's go.”

 

Forty minutes later and they're sat in Parc Monceau. Combeferre bought them both crêpes from the pop-up café near the entrance (cheese for Grantaire, raspberry jam for him) and now they're sat by the synthetic lake, watching the ducks swim idly around the fake Grecian ruins in silence. 

Finally, Combeferre coughs. “René-”

“You don't get to talk right now,” he interjects. “I'm going to talk, and you are going to listen.” 

“Okay.” 

Grantaire sighs and places his empty paper plate to the side. “I understand that I cornered you at a bad time and that you weren't in your right frame of mind. I apologise.”

“I forgive you,” Combeferre says sincerely and his roommate's shoulders relax slightly. 

“Thank you. But,” he continues, tone solidifying once more, “you pulled a tremendous dick move. You built me up to believe that... well, it doesn't matter. You had my friendship, only to dismiss me as your landlord. And that's all your other friends think I am, is your landlord.”

“They don't,” he insists. “Enjolras was genuinely confused, they know that -”

“I'm your friend?” He says it quietly, and Combeferre doesn't need him to elaborate. He knows what he means.

“Grantaire, I like you.” The admission is said without hesitation, not loud but not uncertain. The former dancer's head shoots up and Combeferre meets his eyes. “I promise you, I do. As more than a friend. But I am a widower. Athénaïs' passing is still fresh; I'm not over her, or at least I'm not at the point where I could consider pursuing a relationship.”

“We don't need to have a relationship-”

“But I want that. Eventually. And I think,” he says, fiddling with his fingers, “that you do too.”

“I do. Oh G-d, I do,” Grantaire breathes, taking his hands. “I will wait for you, for as long as I have to. But you have to promise me, you won't pull that shit again. You won't take my heart in your hands and stomp on it like that because I can't handle that, Emile, I just can't.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's. “I am so, so fucking sorry, René.”

“Me too.” He raises his head and goes to say something when his eyes dart to the left and he smirks. “Oh, look at that.”

Combeferre frowns and follows his gaze. A duck has waddled over, taken the crêpe from his temporarilly forgotten plate, and has returned to the pond. 

“I was enjoying that,” he says mournfully and Grantaire splutters with laughter. Combeferre takes in the crinkles around his eyes, the way his whole body moves with the force of his joy, joy that he's finally managed to coax out, and he laughs too. And it feels so fucking _good_.

 

*

 

“Jehan would kill me if he knew I was here.” 

Montparnasse looks over eir shoulder at Courfeyrac. The estate agent is standing in front of a mirror, twisting his way and that as he admires the Gucci jacket that he's just put on. 

“Darling, you wouldn't say 'no' to a free shopping spree at Galeries Lafeyette if it were Donald Trump offering you it,” the Hollywood star drawls.

“You're probably right.” Courfeyrac pauses. “That's a point though; why are you treating me to a shopping spree? We're not exactly close.”

“No, but you and Jehan are.” Montparnasse clicks and Claquesous pulls a chair up for em to sit on. Ey click again and Babet shoves Courfeyrac into a chair opposite him. 

“Oh G-d, are you going to hurt me?!” he cries. “Because if I get blood on this then I'll have to pay out of pocket, and I can't afford that dry cleaning bill.”

“Don't be stupid,” Montparnasse sighs with a roll of eir eyes. “Former gang lord, current superstar. Nothing here will cost a cent. You're here because I need your help.”

“I wouldn't be a good drug's mule, Monty,” he says dubiously. “I mean, I've smuggled weed into a club before by shoving the bag up my-”

“Stop that sentence right there! I mean with Jehan, you imbecile!”

Courfeyrac flutters his eyes a few times. “Jehan? What do you mean?”

“I know that you two dated.”

“Years ago, back in uni.” It had been a very dramatic relationship. They'd argued over hair-straighteners once and ended up talking through their feelings through interpretive dance. “But, what's that got to do with anything?”

“You two managed to maintain a good relationship after you broke up. He's one of your best friends, right?” 

“Yeeeeesssss...”

“Help me win him back,” Montparnasse implores, looking mere seconds away from throwing emself at Courf's feet. “G-d help me, I think I'm in love with him.” 

“No shit,” Courfeyrac snorts. “You ring him every other day.”

“I don't want him to forget about me,” Montparnasse pouts. 

“Impossible.” But Courfeyrac is grinning and he nods enthusiastically. “I'll help you. But I have a request. I want something from you.”

“What more can I give you than free reign of Galeries Lafeyette?” the Hollywood star asks, perplexed.

“I want you to pay for a week's skiing break at Gstaad Palace for two.”

“I don't think Jehan will want to go on a skiing holiday with me yet.”

“Not for you, you sweet simpleton. For me.”

“For two?”

“I'm going to take Marius.”

“Pontmercy? Why on earth would you take that boob? Unless -” Montparnasse's eyes widen and ey slowly smile. “Ooooohhhh, I see! I'm not the only one with an unrequited love, hm?”

“Are you going to do it or not?” Courfeyrac snaps. Montparnasse clicks and Babet hands em eir phone. 

“Bae-bet here has already confirmed your tickets. It's all booked out for Valentine's Day unfortunately but you have it next month. Now,” ey say, leaning forward and smiling wickedly, “tell me how to win my Jehan back.”

 

*

 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been three weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins.”

Cosette fiddles with the crucifix around her neck anxiously, the delicate necklace a present from Valjean at her first communion. She leans back against the hard wood of the confession box, cold and dark. 

“What is your grievance, child?” the gentle voice from the other box asks. She sighs in relief; it's Father Muriel, a family favourite and the man who Valjean credited for leading him to salvation. He's the only one whom Cosette would feel comfortable enough to confess to. And she had a lot to confess. 

“Well... first of all I had intercourse out of wedlock. I'd say about... thirty times?” 

“I see.”

“And...” She takes a deep breath and runs her hands down her face. “And those dalliances have led me to be with child.” The silence from the other booth prompts her to continue. “I am currently in divorce proceedings with my husband, but we are not legally separated as of yet so not only is this a bastard but it's a result of adultery. And what's worse... oh Father, the worst thing is that I think I want to abort it!” 

“And why do you want to do that, my child?” Father Muriel asks calmly. 

“I had a child before. A beautiful child, with my husband. But six weeks into the pregnancy I went into labour and I lost it. It was so so small... not even the size of my husband's palm. I am afraid, Father, that I will lose this child too. A selfish part of me couldn't handle it if I lost another child.” 

“Is there medical evidence to suggest that this child has the chance to be miscarried as the other child did?” 

“Not yet. I understand that abortion is murder and that was the reason I didn't want to get rid of that child I had with my husband when they told me it was sick. But I'm such a bad person, Father, I can't help but think getting rid of this baby is the only fair thing on it.”

“You aren't a bad person at all,” Father Muriel says, softly but firmly. “You have made mistakes, it's true, but you recognise that and you have come to pay contrition to Our Lord. Is your main reason for wanting an abortion your fear of losing this child?”

“It is.”

“And you want a baby?”

“More than anything.” She's sobbing now in earnest, head buried in her hands and mascara burning her eyes. “I want this baby and the father to this child is an amazing man who would care for us both, but I'm afraid I will lose it because I don't deserve it. I'm a sinner and I don't deserve it.”

“The very fact that the Lord has given you this child is evidence enough that you do deserve it. My child,” Father Muriel says, and she can hear him lean forward in his seat, “perhaps G-d granting you this baby is your penance. You have sinned but there is nothing so innocent and pure as a baby. Your duty is to raise this child with love and piety, lead by example of your kind heart. For I know you have a kind heart, my child.” 

“I'm afraid.”

“And it's okay to be afraid,” he assures her. “But never let that stop you from going after what you really want. I promise you, this is all part of His plan. Now, if you would like to recite the Act of Contrition with me.”

Cosette says the words easily, then sits in ponderous silence as Father Muriel recites the Prayer of Absolution.

“'I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,'” he says.

“'Amen',” Cosette whispers.

“G-d has forgiven your sins. Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to G-d.”

Cosette gathers her things and gets to her feet, tottering out of the church and blotting at her face with a handkerchief. Instinctively her hand goes to her belly and she closes her eyes. 'This is all part of His plan', she thinks. 

Delving her hand into her pocket, she pulls out her phone and sends Bahorel a text. 

**I'm coming to yours. I've changed my mind.**

 

*

 

Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Grantaire, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Marius and Bahorel are sat around a table at the Musain, in the middle of a particularly heated poker game. Bossuet lost all of his money within the first five minutes, and is now sat peering at Joly's cards and trying to offer him advice, all of which is being steadfastly ignored. All breakable things have been placed out of Bahorel's reach by Feuilly, and the game is pretty much being held by Grantaire and Enjolras. Courfeyrac and Marius both seem to be winging it. 

“So Enj, how's work?” Feuilly asks, narrowing his eyes at his deck before placing down a six of spades. “We hardly see you.”

“I know, it's a fucking nightmare,” Enjolras groans, shoving some chips into the centre. “Ever since the National Front has gained such traction there's no end of campaign work going on. It's tiring but I'm making a difference, so I'm happy.”

“If you were making a difference the National Front would have been dissolved by now,” Grantaire pipes up, not looking up from his deck. 

Enjolras watches him carefully. They know how awful it had been for Combeferre when the two had their falling out, and after a careful explanation by the doctor on the condition of his relationship with the counsellor, Enjolras is taking extra lengths to include him in Les Amis. But while his presence isn't exactly unwanted, it's not altogether enjoyed either.

“Don't be a dick, R,” Joly says lightly and Enjolras shoots him a thankful look. Grantaire, for his part, just laughs and lays down a Queen of Hearts. 

“This game's shit,” Bahorel grunts and Courfeyrac turns his attention to him. 

“Speaking of hardly seeing someone, what's going on with you, Baz? You quit Jehan's production; have you got another job?”

Bahorel and Feuilly share nondescript glances before the former shrugs. “Canal+ are making a film and I'm in the audition process at the moment so that's all a bit hectic. When I'm not there I'm doing drama workshops at the rec centre with the kids so I'm kind of swamped.”

“That's cool, what film?” Marius asks excitedly. Bahorel's eyes drop straight back to his cards.

“Can't talk about it when it's in the planning stages,” he mumbles. 

Marius frowns, wounded, and glances to Feuilly who shakes his head. The two are still civil with one another since divorce proceedings began, Feuilly being of the opinion that Marius is a good man and Marius being somewhat in awe of Feuilly from the very beginning. (But then, if you ask Enjolras, everyone is in awe of Feuilly. He's just that level of awesome.) 

“OOH JOLY, lay that card down!” Bossuet screeches, causing his partner to jump out of their seat.

“Don't fucking startle me, it's not good for the baby! Or my nerves,” he adds, before shaking his head. “Brilliant poker face, by the way, Boss.”

“Sorry honey,” he says sheepishly and Joly rolls his eyes, kissing his temple gently. 

“When are you due?” Courfeyrac asks. Bahorel looks up curiously, eyeing Joly's bump with an unreadable expression.

“23rd July,” Grantaire smiles, reaching over the table to take Joly's hand in his. “We're very excited.” 

“Four's a crowd, R,” Bossuet snorts. 

“Where's the Love Doctor anyhow?” Enjolras smirks.

“Doing what he does best; saving lives,” Grantaire replies, placing a card down. 

“And Musichetta?”

“Having dinner with her cousin. Javert,” Bossuet adds, wrinkling his nose at the name.

“Not a fan?” Enjolras enquires.

“Hell no. But he's her best friend and one of the sprog's future g-dfather's so we can't complain much.”

“The other being?”

“AHEM,” Grantaire coughs, waving his hands. 

The table laughs good-naturedly when Bahorel's phone pings. He looks down at it and reads, Feuilly and Courfeyrac watching him carefully while the rest of the table continue their game as normal, unaware of the sudden change in their friend's expression. He looks around wildly and Feuilly raises an eyebrow at him. He shakes his head before throwing his cards down. “I fold. Gotta go guys, nice seeing you all.”

“Canal+?” Courfeyrac asks innocently. 

“Something like that. Bye!” He tugs his red coat on and practically sprints out of the door. The group call their goodbyes after him before continuing the game. Marius leans over and peeks at his cards.

“Why did he fold? He could have won the game with that hand.”

“I guess it must have been something important,” Enjolras shrugs.

“His secret girlfriend, maybe,” Courfeyrac grins. 

Feuilly pales and whips his head round to focus on him. “What was that?”

“Remember when he tried to tell me he was booking a holiday for you and him to go to Prague? And obviously you didn't go.” Courfeyrac leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Do you know who she is?”

“You're talking shit, Courf,” he grumbles.

“Nothing new there then,” Marius chirrups, blushing with pride as the group laughs at his (admittedly unintentional) joke. 

The game goes on as normal, with Grantaire coming out top in the end, but Feuilly can't help but shake the feeling in his stomach that something is definitely not right. 

 

*

 

“You never did open my present.” 

Grantaire and Combeferre are sat at dinner, a belated formal birthday meal which had been postponed for an indetermined amount of time after their argument. The restaurant – 'Bistrot Paul Bert' – isn't anything overly special, with a tobacco-stained ceiling and faded posters on the wall from a bygone age, but it's intimate and warm, the slightly battered but ultimately endearing appearance reminding Combeferre of Grantaire in a bizzare way. 

Grantaire looks up from where he's poking his roast chicken in surprise. “Oh, so I didn't! I guess I kind of forgot in the drama of it all.”

There wasn't much drama after the park. They'd gone back to the flat, made popcorn, and marathoned 'Versailles', with Grantaire pointing out the historical inaccuracies and Combeferre revelling in the way his roommate's face lit up when he talked about something he loved.

“Do you still have it?” 

“Yeah, in my bag.” Combeferre stands to get it before placing it gently before Grantaire. His roommate beams at him as he begins to tear it open before he reaches the plain black box. He glances at Combeferre before opening the box. Combeferre chews his nails (a terrible nervous tic that his wife hated) as he watches Grantaire remove the certificate. The paper is thick and cream, with golden gilt and looping black script declaring that René Grantaire officially has a star named after him. 

“Oh my G-d... Emile... this is the best thing I've ever been given.” He looks up and his eyes are shimmering, his oil spill curls flopping over his face, which Combeferre takes to his advantage by brushing them out the way and stroking his face.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers and Grantaire places his hand over the one cupping his cheek.

“Happy Valentine's Day.”

 

*

 

Meanwhile, on the other side of Paris, Courfeyrac plans on getting extremely drunk on the three euro bottle of rosé that he'd bought on the way back from work. He slumps through the door, exhausted after having booked so many last-minute trips to various romantic get-aways. (He imagines it must be easier for travel agents in countries like England, where the most romantic city in the world to them is Paris. For him, who has to handle disillusioned Parisians every day, the task is much harder.) 

However, it isn't all doom and gloom; his mysterious secret admirer has continued to impress, with his favourite chocolates, a stuffed teddy the size of a wardrobe, and a McNuggets sharebox wrapped up with a beautiful bow delivered to his desk over the past few weeks. Louise has been creaming herself, squealing at the romance of it all while trying to steal the nuggets without Courf noticing. (Impossible; his Chicken Nugget senses were tingling if she so much as looked in the box's direction.) 

“Hey honey, I'm h-” He stops. 

The front room is completely filled with sunflowers, just like the kind he'd found on his desk the previous month. From the kitchen there's the smell of ratatouille and the dining room table has been laid up with candles, silverware, and China plates decorated with sunflowers which he can't even remember ever buying. He drops his things to the floor when Marius walks out of  
the kitchen, rubbing his hands on a teatowel.

“Oh, hey there,” he smiles simply.

“Marius... what is all this?” he asks cautiously. Marius blinks.

“Oh, well I remember you saying that sunflowers were your favourite flower, so I ordered them in. And you're from Corsica, so I made ratatouille, which is quite Mediterranean – I didn't have time to find a recipe that's actually Corsican, sorry – and I know you like Eddie Redmayne so I bought the DVD of 'Les Animaux Fantastiques' and thought we could watch it after dinner. Why is your face doing that?”

'That' is Courfeyrac's mouth opening and closing, his eyelids fluttering as if he's going to faint. “B-b-but... why?”

“Beeecausee it's Valentine's Day? Isn't this what you do on Valentine's Day?”

“Well yeah, if you're a couple.”

“I mean, we pretty much are.” Courfeyrac squeaks and Marius continues, “We live together, we sleep in the same bed, we tell each other everything, we buy things for each other, we do all the stuff me and Cosette did without the sex. And I'm with you for Valentine's Day so why wouldn't I treat you for Valentine's Day?”

“I... are you asking me...” Courfeyrac stops and shakes his head. “You're still married.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

“So we can't-”

“It's not like that,” Marius interjects. “I'm not... it's not some kind of guilt trip, or anything. I just... you're alone and I'm alone and we shouldn't have to be. So I will be your date for the night.”

'Platonic. Of course', Courfeyrac sighs internally, but to Marius he grins and nods enthusiastically. “That's a really good idea. Thank you Marius!”

“You're welcome,” he says, cheeks flushing.

“And I have a surprise, too.” Courfeyrac digs in his pockets and removes the tickets Montparnasse had acquired for him. “I know that you have some time off next month so I figured that we should do something fun.”

Marius frowns down at the paper, before his eyes widen. “Gstaad Palace?!” 

“You like skiing, right?” Courfeyrac asks, slightly anxious, even though he knows that Marius and Cosette would go with Valjean and Feuilly once a month to the mountains for that sole purpose. 

“Yeah, it's one of my favourite things to do! Oh Courf, thank you!” he cries, flinging his arms around Courfeyrac and burying his face in his shoulder. “You're the best.”

Courfeyrac runs his hands through Marius' hair and tries to look at the positives; he's got Marius in his arms on Valentine's Day and he doesn't have to drink his crap rosé alone. 

It could be worse.


	7. March

Valjean is having a strange sense of déjà vu, pertaining back to October. 

He and Cosette are once again sat in 'Angelina's', nursing raspberry éclairs and Earl Grey. Once again, his daughter is staring into her teacup and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else but there.

“Darling, wha-”

“I'm pregnant.”

He freezes as she raises her head and oh, there is that painfully familiar change. The pearlescent skin, the wide eyes that are bright with the light of the future, the dimple in her cheek from an almost omnipresent smile. The last time she had looked so radiant she had been three weeks gone and was still married to Marius.

“W-with Bahorel's child?”

“Yes, who else?” she says, brow puckering slightly before it smooths again. “I went to a priest. He told me that this is what G-d wants for me.”

“Absolutely.” His face breaks into a smile, but it's a cautious one. He takes her hands. “How far along are you?”

“Five weeks.” And there it is, that litter flicker of anxiety, of anguish, of the thought that they all are harbouring but don't want to voice. “Feuilly knows too, but that's it.” 

“How are you feeling about it?”

“I...” She sighs and shakes her head. “I don't know. But I think I'm... I know I'm excited. Papa,” she says, bringing his hands to her mouth and kissing them, “I'm going to be a mother.”

“The best one there is.” He smiles softly. “I can't wait for you to experience that joy that you and your brother have given me.” 

“I want to raise them as you and Mama did us. With love and understanding and acceptance.” She swallows and casts her eyes to the window, watching the entire population of Paris flock past. “The priest believes the child is my penance for my sin.”

“You and Feuilly were mine,” her father acquiesces. 

He thinks back to when he was young. He'd been twenty-two when he was sentenced to prison. His crimes had started at fourteen stealing bread, and had escalated to a bank robbery and being falsley accused of a manslaughter charge. He'd been in prison for fifteen before he was released on bail once his appeal had been granted on account of false charges. After leaving prison, he'd stumbled into a church where he'd met Father Muriel, who helped him establish himself as a decent man. He found a job as a local politician, was the chair of multiple local charities helping the poor, attended church regularly. By 46 the media had caught wind of his story and his reformation became something of an inspiration to the people, giving credibility to his name and acting as a catalyst for his career, which ten years later would result in him becoming Mayor of Paris, a position he's yet to lose. 

All of this was all very well and good, but it wasn't until he met Fantine through his non-profit organisation investigating sexual health and prostitution within the city that his life truly found purpose. Her hair was ragged, her teeth were rotting in her mouth, her bones were prominent against her skin. He learnt that the father of her daughter had abandoned them and her family had cast her out, leaving her stranded in Paris during the height of the housing crisis. Social services took her daughter – Cosette, then six years old – and left her with the Thenardiers, a foster family of unscrupulous character who clearly cared more for the money than the children. He heard her plight and immediately rang his contacts, who made it possible for him to have the young Cosette and another child who she refused to leave behind – a young orphan boy two years her senior, whose only reminder of his family was his surname, Feuilly – removed from the foster home and brought to his mansion instead. He moved Fantine in with them, and within five months of them being a family unit they wed in a small ceremony at the city hall. 

Ever since taking those three wayward souls into his life, Valjean found that there was nothing so important to him as his newfound family. He gave them all everything he could, refused to go anywhere where they couldn't follow. When Fantine was diagnosed with leukemia, he paid for all the best medical treatment there was. And when his beloved wife passed two weeks after Cosette's ninth birthday, he bought an entire patch of the Montmartre graveyard and buried her there, as well as planting a memorial garden around her grave. 

“I do think,” Valjean says, after he comes back to the present day and his eyes focus on his daughter as she is now, rather than the toddler he never stopped holding, “that this is all a good thing.”

“You forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive. I do think it's wise to keep it to yourself for a bit longer though, if only to prevent media interference,” he adds, taking a sip from his now tepid tea. 

“Right. Oh Papa, I'm so excited!”

“As am I. And Bahorel?” 

Her smile dims slightly. “He's never been happier. And he's going to stay by my side through it all.”

“Then why aren't you happy?” 

“Because I think... maybe he isn't happy with being just the baby's father. He wants... wants...”

“Wants what me and your mother had?” Valjean smiles sadly. “He loves you with all his heart, you know.”

“I know.”

“And it was unfair of you to play with that knowledge.”

“I didn't-”

“My darling, you did. And now not only are you the love of his life but you're the mother of his child, too. What I'm saying is that you need to see things from his perspective for once. And, I think you need to decide on what it is you really want from him.”

“Papa?”

“Oh look, our quiches are here.” 

She stares at him uncertainly but Valjean steadfastly ignores her, thanking the waitress and immediately spearing his salad.

 

*

 

“Aaaannnnddd... there it is!” 

Bossuet and Musichetta squeal in delight as Joly's stomach jolts, a small protrustion like a fist bulging against the taut flesh. 

“He's a-kicking like a can-can dancer!” Bossuet cackles, his slight Cajun accent slipping through in his joy. 

“And clearly I'm going to remain the only member of this family with a bum leg,” Joly says with faux melancholy. 

“That's a point though, we need to start thinking about names,” Musichetta notes. 

“Oh Lord, I've been compiling my list since infanthood,” Joly says. 

“Same here.”

“I ur, I have no clue,” Bossuet admits sheepishly. “You know I'm easy.”

“Ain't that the truth?” Musichetta winks. 

“Well, we'll compile a list tonight. But right now, the bebé has another stunt for you.” Joly rummages in his pocket and retrieves a miniature football he'd gotten in a Christmas cracker. He places it on his stomach, tapping the place by the ball lightly. There's a pause and suddenly the football is kicked and rolls off his stomach onto the floor. 

“GOOOOOAAALLLL!!!” Bossuet screams, throwing his arms in the air and running round the room maniacally. Musichetta laughs and runs after him, grabbing him and spinnng him round in circles as if France had just won the World Cup. 

Joly watches them with a complacent smile, serenity washing over him for one of the first times since his diagnosis. He leans forward and cups a hand over his stomach. 

“This is what you've got to look forward to, bebé. You're going to love it!” 

 

*

 

Enjolras watches with a raised eyebrow as Courfeyrac stares into his third piña colada, mixing it with the tiny umbrella and mumbling under his breath. 

“I don't know what you're saying,” they sigh eventually and the travel agent looks up. 

“Me and Marius are going to Gstaad Palace in two days, and I'm trying to figure out how to tell him I love him.”

“Oh good Lord.” They look to their left, hoping Jehan with comisserate with them about their lovelorn friend, but to Enjolras' chagrin he's sat there looking like Ophelia, wilting away in a dank river. “What's wrong with you?” they ask, because although Enjolras feels wholly exasperated with their lovesick friends, they're not a complete asshole. 

“Just... work drama,” he replies, twirling his plait around his finger absently. 

“Is this to do with a certain Hollywood filmstar?” Courfeyrac says slyly, stopping mumbling for long enough to offer a cheeky smile at Jehan. The playwright's ears pinken and he folds his arms defensively.

“I don't know what on earth you mean,” he scoffs and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“It's okay, you know. Besides, I know you and Montparnasse; the two of you love the drama.”

“Oh, you don't-”

“In fact, if you really want eir attentions to cease, stop being so dramatic. Play along with em.” 

Enjolras, despite themselves, is now invested in the conversation. “How do you mean, 'play along'?”

“Kiss eir ass like everybody else does,” Courfeyrac says, as if he's some kind of wisened agony aunt who knows all, rather than someone equally as useless in the romantic sector. “The reason ey like you is because you aren't like everybody else. You don't give a shit that eir famous.” 

“Fame doesn't define a person, their personality does,” Jehan says haughtily. “And ey have the personality of a frog.”

“A frog?” Enjolras frowns. “I was thinking a budgie. Can't stop looking in shiny objects.”

“Isn't that Courf?” Jehan asks innocently and Courfeyrac pauses from his plotting to shoot him a look of horror.

“Et tu, Brute?” 

“Look, Courf,” Jehan says, leaning forward and taking his hand, “I really appreciate what you're trying to do, but the day I give in to Montparnasse is the day ey think ey have power over me.”

“Sorry, did I miss something? Since when has Monty been the Goblin King?” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Pussyfooting around does nothing. You need to be proactive.”

“Like you are with Pontmercy?” Enjolras asks. 

“Okay, point taken. But trust me Jehan, the only way you'll get rid of Montparnasse is if you treat em like everybody else does.” 

Jehan sighs and goes to speak when his phone flashes. Courfeyrac peeks down to see MONTPARNASSE *poo emoji* written across the screen in capitals. “Now's your chance.” Jehan nods and takes the phone in hand, typing a response. 

Enjolras sighs contentedly. “And, with that sorted, can we just order please? And Courf, if you even think about sighing dramatically one more time I will personally spoon your eyes out with a fork.” 

“Oh Enj, what would I do without your support?”

 

*

 

Combeferre hates motorway driving. In fact, he hates driving non-stop, since getting in a car in Paris is basically announcing you have a death-wish. It's gotten to the point where he can't sleep if he can't hear car horns honking every two minutes. But today is important; he's going to the Normandy house. 

“R, not that I don't love The Spice Girls, but if I hear 'Wannabe' one more time I'm going to stop this car and leave you on the side of the road.”

Grantaire pouts. “It's my van. And anyway, you shouldn't have given me the AUX cord then.”

“I didn't realise all you had on your phone was ABBA, The Spice Girls, and the soundtrack to every Shrek film.” 

“Well excuuuuuseee me, music snob!”

“I am not a snob!”

“If you wanna be my lover, you've got to get with my tunes,” Grantaire says, folding his arms. Combeferre turns to glare at him before sighing. 

“Fine. But I only want the 'Shrek 2' soundtrack for the rest of the journey, deal?”

“One quick listen to 'Gimme Gimme Gimme' and then it'll be nothing but Jennifer Saunders' warbling from hereon out.” 

“English or Spanish?”

“You know 'Gimme Gimme Gimme' is better in Spanish.” 

“Oh, querido dios.”

“'Dame Dame Dame' it is!” 

A few hours later, after two pee breaks and six repeats of the Shrek 2 soundtrack, the navigation system tells them they've arrived at their destination.   
Combeferre puts the car in first gear as they roll along the drive, gravel grinding under the pressure of the tyres. The drive itself stretches far back, which is common with old manor houses such as this one. Trees that were presumably once immaculately groomed now trail their green fingers along the roof of the car and the windows, marvelling at the first humans to grace the grounds in so long. 

Finally, they circle around a mossy fountain and stop in front of the manor. Grantaire whistles and Combeferre can't help but do the same. It's huge, at least three stories, made of tan brick and windows that stretch from ceiling to floor in each room. Although the garden is wild the house still looks respectable, holding itself with dignity even as ivy roots itself into the foundations and the odd panel of glass has been smashed. Chains criss-cross the grand front door, the off-white paint chipped and smattering the floor like confetti. Luckily, Dorine had sent him the keys a week after their disastrous visit. 

Combeferre goes about getting Grantaire's wheelchair from the boot before lifting him into it. They go to the door, only to find that there are a couple of stairs in front of it. 

“So first port of call would be to insert wheelchair ramps in this place,” he murmurs, too focused on fiddling with the lock to notice the way Grantaire beams at him. Once he manages to unlock the chains they slither to the ground like snakes, one crashing onto Combeferre's toe and making him yelp. He goes into the boot once more and retrieves a large, heavy plank of wood that Feuilly had given Grantaire a couple of months ago to act as a transportable ramp. With some difficulty he heaves it to the stairs, then holds it in place as Grantaire gingerly wheels himself up. But they're in now and, although they're limited to the ground floor, it's enough for now. 

“This place is amazing,” Grantaire breathes, and Combeferre is inclined to agree. The ceilings are vaulted and ornately plastered, although quite a few cracks lattice the plasterwork. The floors are black and white tile, dusty but still immaculate. Each room has a grandiose crystal chandelier hanging low, like a Duchess' earrings. Although there's not much in the way of furniture, there's the odd velvet loveseat or oak bookcase. 

“Well, there's not much that needs doing down here aside from some plastering and dusting,” he decides.

“Hey Ferret, look at me!” He turns and grins. Grantaire has managed to wheel himself into a fireplace. “How fucking huge is this thing, huh?!” 

“No wonder it's so big, I doubt this place has central heating.”

“Add that to the list then.”

“I wonder why not much has been stolen.” He looks around before his eyes fall on a security camera in the corner of the room. “Huh. So there's some electricity at least.”

“Who pays for that?” Grantaire asks, joining his side. 

“Athénaïs' father, I expect. Although no doubt the bill's going to be shifted to me if I take up residence here.”

“'If'?” Grantaire's eyebrows raise up to his hairline and Combeferre shrugs.

“I'm not 100% sure yet.”

“You sounded like you were last month,” he says hesitantly. 

“That's because I thought I was. But now... I don't know, I have to put things in perspective. It's like you said... my life is in Paris.” He stops and briefly looks down at Grantaire, who's looking back at him as if he's the Plato to his Aristotle. 

“You know we're all here for you whatever your decision.”

“I know.” Combeferre takes Grantaire's hand and brings it to his lips before squeezing it. “Come on. Let's keep looking around.”

 

*

 

Bahorel hates going to Feuilly's house. Not because he doesn't love Feuilly, but because it can't really be considered a 'house' in the traditional sense; Feuilly lives on a riverboat, docked right opposite Bastille station. The transition from land to water still makes him nauseous, despite Feuilly having lived in it since he was twenty-two. 

“It's not even moving,” the carpenter says in disbelief. Bahorel shakes his head. 

“I can literally hear the water sloshing against the wood,” he replies. 

“Christ, you're a drama queen. Between your seasickness and Cosette's inability to swim, it seems I'm never going to see my niece/nephew.”

“Of course you can. Just on nice, safe dry land where it has no chance of drowning.”

Feuilly snorts and hands him a beer, before the two of them flop down on the sofa and crack the cans open. Bahorel slugs his back desperately, trying his best to take the edge off. 

“So she's told Papa?” Feuilly asks and Bahorel nods. “Good. He'll already be on Pinterest planning the baby's nursery.”

“I've already sent him my ideas,” he adds. 

“I'll build the crib for you. Just show me what kind of design you guys want and I'll get right on it.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. It's not every day you become an uncle.” Feuilly stares at the floor pensively, his face gentle. In the light of the fake fire (Bahorel is so thrilled it's not possible to put a fireplace on this boat; water's bad enough, but pulling a Joan of Arc on water would just be the most miserable way to die) he looks almost like he's glowing. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, and his friend looks up with a soft smile. 

“I'm just wondering how this is all going to work.”

“How do you mean?” he frowns.

“I'm absolutely thrilled for you both,” Feuilly says cautiously, “but now things are different, even more so than before.”

“Again, how do you mean?” 

“A baby's involved. And if you both continue this weird 'friends with benefits' thing whilst raising a baby together, it's just an opportunity for disaster.”

“I wouldn't let anything happen-”

“I know you wouldn't. Your dedication isn't the problem.”

Ah. “Cosette's is?”

“She doesn't know what she wants. Her endgame is this kid. That gives her even less time to think about her endgame with you.”

Bahorel chews the inside of his cheek and drops his gaze to his lap. “Can we talk about something else please?”

“Okay. Have you seen that new film with Chris Pratt? The space one?”

“He's done a lot of films in space, Feu, you've got to be more specific.”

“The one with that irritating blonde.”

“Oh yeah, what did you think about it?”

And so Feuilly begins to blither on about his opinions, praising the special effects and condemning Pratt's co-star, all the while very obviously trying to think of any other thing he can talk about besides Bahorel's problems. And so Bahorel gets himself another beer, beginning to feel the buzz, and lets himself be distracted. Because most days he needs all the help he can get.

 

*

 

Hospitals are absolutely fascinating places. Had Bossuet been a sociologist, he would have loved to talk about the internal dynamics of doctors and nurses, of the differing reactions of the various patients to their various diagnoses, of the way that the moment one life ends another begins. But he isn't a sociologist, and so all he can comment on is that he loves seeing Mme. Hugo's face light up when he brings her her favourite pudding. 

“Oh Altaïr, you are an angel!” she coos as he delicately pours the custard over her chocolate fondant cake. 

“I saved you the biggest slice, Mme. Hugo,” he grins, handing her the plate and fork. “Because you're my favourite patient. Just don't tell the rest of them, huh?”

“It'll be our little secret.” She offers him a gummy smile and he beams back, before returning to his trolley and moving on to the next room. 

The TV is blaring and Bossuet has to fight the urge to cover his ears as the crowd of football goers' tinny screams fill the room. The teenage boy hunched on the bed seems immune, his eyes glazed as he watches the ball soar through the sky. A goal is scored and Bossuet takes that as his sign to speak. 

“Hey, Guillaume!” he says cheerily. The boy pauses the screen and looks over warily. 

“Hey, Baldi,” he replies dryly. Bossuet sours at the nickname, but instead smiles brighter to try and hide his upset. 

“Brought you some chocolate fondant. And guess what? I also have custard!”

“Ooh, goody!” Guillaume squeals sardonically, eyes already wandering to the TV. Bossuet seizes it as an opportunity.

“Who's playing?”

“England vs. Madrid.”

“And we're supporting...?”

“Madrid, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Bossuet echoes sagely. “Well then... up the lads!”

Guillaume's eyes snap back to Bossuet, his expression vaguely reminiscent of Enjolras' when they overheard a bigoted opinion. “What did you say?”

“I – I said up the... the lads?” 

The teenager assesses him critically for a moment before he shakes his head and unpauses the TV. When nothing more is said for a good thirty seconds, Bossuet places the plate on the bedside table and walks out of the room, shoulders sagging. 

He spots Combeferre in the corridor and calls for him. “Hey, Ferre. You know Guillaume in Room 76?”

“I think I've met him once or twice, yes.”

“Why's he here?” 

“I can't really tell you that Boss, doctor-patient confidentiality,” he says apologetically. 

“Ah, I understand. What if it's in charades? And I guess, is that okay?” 

“No, Bossuet.”

“Shoot.” 

“Sorry.” 

Combeferre pats him on the shoulder and walks away, leaving Bossuet to sit there and wonder what on earth is the matter with that sullen boy in Room 76. 

 

*

 

“Okay, can we take it from where Gregor decides to climb out of the window, please?” 

Jehan can barely hold back his frustration when Montparnasse sighs, long and loud and with far too much dramatics than necessary. “You made that window far too high!” 

“So?” 

“So,” the actor snaps, dragging out each syllable, “I'm bruising myself climbing up to it. I have an interview with Buzzfeed tomorrow and if I'm covered in bruises then the rumour mill will start running, not to mention I'll look hideous.” 

Jehan is about to start cussing em out, when the image of Courfeyrac pops up in his mind, like the ghost of a Jedi knight. 'The only way you'll get rid of Montparnasse is if you treat em like everybody else does.' He shrugs and, with a dramatic gasp of his own, raises his hands to his face. “Gosh, you know what Monty, you are absolutely right!”

Montparnasse blinks once, twice, before ey deadpans, “I am?”

“Yes! You're the leading character, not to mention so famous, it wouldn't do to have you looking all battered and bruised! I'll get the set redesigned right away!”

“Are you... are you fucking with me?” ey ask, uncertainly.

“Absolutely not! I just want to make sure that the most important person in the room is happy!” He beams at the actor, fluttering his eyelashes in a ridiculously exagerrated way. 

“Yes... yes, about time,” Montparnasse says, although there's little conviction. 

Jehan turns away with a smirk and sends a text to Courfeyrac:

**And so it begins.**

 

*

 

Courfeyrac looks down at his phone and grins. Marius, who's tugging his skis off of his feet, looks up at him curiously.

“What's got you all happy, Courf?” he asks. 

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Just that Jehan's finally learning listening to me, for once.” 

He puts the mobile to the side and flops down on the brown leather sofa, immediately regretting it as a shooting pain runs from his ass to his shoulders. “Bastard!”

“You need to be more careful moving about, Courf,” Marius gently admonishes, yanking his ski suit to the floor and hanging it by the fireplace before putting on his pyjamas. He brings over a tray of thick, creamy hot chocolate that he'd prepared whilst Courfeyrac was defrosting in the shower earlier, and offers one to the other man before lowering himself on the spot next to him. “You really took a tumble out there.”

“It wasn't that bad -”

“You rolled down the entire mountain. I had to get the lodge staff to help me pull you out of that massive snowball you created.”

“Okay, so maybe it wasn't my smoothest move,” he snickers, before looking at Marius accusingly. “How come you're normally so clumsy on land, but on ice and snow you're like a swan?”

“Years of practise, I suppose,” he shrugs. “And with ice and snow you're supposed to slip and slide all over the place. I could be just as clumsy there as I am on land, but it's not as obvious because you're beside me, turning yourself into a snowman.”

Courfeyrac lightly punches his shoulder and Marius laughs, before they both recline on the sofa and look into the fire. The gentle glow fills the room with soft oranges and reds, matching Marius' own hair and making him shine. Courfeyrac can't help but admire him. He doesn't process how much time has passed until Marius looks up at him shyly. 

“What are you staring at?” he murmurs.

“One of the most beautiful people I've ever seen,” Coureyrac responds simply. 

Marius' eyes widen and his gaze darts down, cheeks filling with pink. He swirls the hot chocolate in his mug and takes a sip, leaving a thick streak of the ganache-like substance on his bottom lip. Courf slowly reaches out.

“May I?” Marius nods wordlessly and watches, fascinated, as Courfeyrac runs the pad of his thumb along his lip. He collects the chocolate and offers it to Marius. Uncertain, he darts his tongue out and laps at Courfeyrac's thumb. The air seems to thicken and once Marius stops, Courfeyrac reaches out to cradle his face, the same thumb running along Marius' jawline. Unconsciously, Marius begins to crack his knuckles. “You're stimming. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Marius blurts, before calming slightly. “No. I like it. I just... I'm not sure how to process this.”

“Tell me what you need,” Courfeyrac whispers. 

Silence once more as Marius collects his thoughts. Courfeyrac watches his hazel eyes dart about, his mouth form words that haven't found the courage to be heard aloud yet. Finally, with a look of determination that makes Courfeyrac's heart lurch, he meets his eyes. “You.”

Courfeyrac doesn't hesitate. He leans in and presses his mouth to Marius', a slight moan escaping as he tastes the remnants of chocolate and Marius, Marius, his Marius. He keeps the pressure soft, barely moving until Marius raises tentative hands to his head and pulls him in closer. He lets Marius lead, opening his mouth obligingly as the other man runs his tongue hesitantly along his lip. There's no passion, and yet it's the most intimate, exposing thing Courfeyrac has ever done. After what could be a minute, or what could be a lifetime, Marius pulls back. 

“I'm in love with you,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I still love Cosette – you need to know that – but I love you, too.”

“Oh Marius, I feel the same,” Courfeyrac grins, his smile shining like a supernova. “I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember.” 

“I've been the one leaving you gifts at work.”

“I got Montparnasse to book this holiday for us so I could tell you how I felt... you beat me to it, though,” he adds with a sly grin. 

Marius bites his lip, which is spreading into a smile of his own. “Oops, sorry.”

“Never apologise. This is the best gift you could have given me.”

“Better than the chicken nuggets?”

Courfeyrac pauses and ponders this for a second, before winking. “It's probably a tie.”

Marius laughs, a little high pitched and a little nervous, but genuine all the same. He leans in and kisses Courfeyrac's nose, who beams at him and scoops Marius into a hug. They lay on the sofa, spooning and kissing as the embers in the fireplace continue to glow.


End file.
